


All Men Have Claws

by GermanShepherd



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Camaraderie, Gen, M/M, Racism, punchcat, snarky badass Khajiit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-10 05:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 41,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2013159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GermanShepherd/pseuds/GermanShepherd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ri'Kash - or Ripper Kari, as the Nords call him, since he fights using only his fists and claws - has been forced to give up his career as a bandit, pirate, and smuggler, and has decided to join the Stormcloak rebellion. Unfortunately, his stubborn disposition is not a good match for Ulfric's arrogance and dominance, and Kari finds he has a couple of bones to pick with the man's racism. Eventual OC/Ulfric slash, with exploration of racism and themes of camaraderie between soldiers. Some minor changes in canon to make the story run smoother.<br/>The main OC is not Dovahkiin (to keep things interesting), though he does some tasks which are normally given to the Dragonborn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Test

**Author's Note:**

> Note on pronunciation: Kari is pronounced KAH-ree, with a tall, dark 'ah' sound, like the ou in 'wrought'. It's an Anglicisation of the Old Norse name Kári.

As soon as he'd woken up in an Imperial cart, hands tied, he knew he'd been betrayed by his partners. Ah, well. So what if he wasn't going to cash in on the ransom payout they'd extorted? If the cart was going where he thought it was going, it wouldn't matter for long anyway.

He'd realised he was sitting opposite Ulfric Stormcloak when the blond Nord next to him started talking. He'd heard many things about the man, especially how racist he was, but nothing had prepared him for the barely-contained power sitting in front of him. Even with his hands tied and his mouth gagged, Ulfric was awe-inspiring. His eyes gleamed brighter than the sun on the virgin snow.

They'd gotten off the cart - he'd given the Imperials his name for their ridiculous list, 'Ripper Kari' - and they'd lined up for execution. Nothing he hadn't experienced and escaped from before, but then Imperials were much more organised than officials in Elsweyr. Then the dragon came, of all things, and as he was escaping he glimpsed the steel in Ulfric's eyes again before he was pulled along by the blond Nord and the other prisoner who had been in the cart.

  
"How did you get caught up with us?" the Nord (he said his name was Ralof) had asked him.

"My friends left me for dead," he'd said.

"Not very good friends."

"Bandits often aren't."

The Nord had gone silent for a few minutes before speaking again.

"You should go to Windhelm and join the rebellion. Ulfric needs men like you."

"Do you think he'll have me?"

"Of course he will."

  
Now he stood at the gates of the Palace of the Kings, running his claws over the well-worn inscriptions. Stories of famous, ancient Nords. Always Nords. There was little place for a Khajiit in Skyrim, not even one who had spent the last ten years here. It had been so long, his own Khajiiti name felt strange on his tongue.

He squared his shoulders and strutted inside past the dour-faced guards who banged the door shut behind him. Inside, the hall gleamed with torchlight, bright beams and deep shadows dancing on the gloomy stone. A sombre throne loomed at the end. There was no one in sight - where was the impressive force he had been told about? - then he heard voices echoing nearby. The rich, booming timbre could only be Ulfric Stormcloak, explaining to his gravelly companion how he had escaped from Helgen. The voices drew nearer; their owners appeared from a side hallway and he was met with the sight of two huge men in furs. They walked past him, still talking, seemingly oblivious to his presence. He growled low. Ulfric's man turned on his heels with a scowl on his face; Ulfric just stared at him for a few seconds. Recognition grew in his eyes and something like a smile pulled at his mouth.  
"You are from Helgen," he said.

He nodded.

"What is your business? You are not here to reminisce."

"I want to join the Stormcloak rebellion."

A smile pulled at his lips. "What's your name?"

"They call me Ripper Kari."

Ulfric mouthed his name silently and his eyes ran Kari up and down. They were wondering what a Khajiit could do to help them. Kari had expected no more.  
"You look like a fighter," Ulfric said at last. He turned and stepped up to the throne before draping himself on it. "Why do you want to join?"

"I have a hatred for the Empire. And now that my partners have abandoned me I have little else to do."

"You are a Khajiit," the other man said. Kari raised an eyebrow at him and tilted his head as if to say, 'well done'.

"Ripper Kari," Ulfric said, ignoring the man's remark. "A Nord name. So you have been here long enough to gain a name from my people. I would be glad to have you in my ranks. Though I may doubt your motivations."

Kari frowned. "I am fond of this land. It has given me much. I cannot say the same of all of its people."

Ulfric shared a glance with the man at his side. "Your nerve will serve you well in battle. But before you join us you must pass a test."

How surprising. "What test?"

"We need to know you can fight. If you - "

"I can fight."

He raised an eyebrow. "Can you? If you go up against our best fighter, and win, then you will have earned your place among us."

"Ulfric," the man at his side began, "you cannot ask him to fight Thorri. The man is unstoppable."

"Our new friend seems confident in his abilities."

Kari blinked. Always, people wanted to test him. He had led warbands in battle. He had been chieftain of his clan in Elsweyr. There was little a Nord brawler could do to him.

"If you do prove yourself, you will be invaluable to me. I need good warriors close at my side. Do you accept?"

"Of course," hissed Kari.

"Galmar, rouse Thorri. We'll use the courtyard. Call out the barracks, too. It's been a while since they've had good entertainment. Be here in an hour, Ripper Kari." He spoke his name with something like relish.

Kari was prepared as soon as he strapped on his armour. He stood on one side of the courtyard and watched the Stormcloaks crowd around Thorri, clearly admiring of his reputation. They brought him his weapons, a sword and shield, both made of wood. They were heavy training weapons, and though they wouldn't cut, they would break bones and give bruises. Thorri took the sword and shook his head. Someone brought him another sword. Dual wielding, then. That was manageable. Kari absently fingered his gauntlets modified to accommodate his claws. He would have to be careful not to really hurt this man, or kill him. Kari was not used to training grounds. He was used to raiding and setting fire to villages and twisting the necks of the men who dared fight him. Real battle was his training ground.

Ulfric and Galmar stood at the edge of the allocated area, Ulfric with his arms crossed and Galmar shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The crowd of Stormcloaks quieted and drew away from the edge. It was time to fight.

Thorri turned towards Kari and sank his head upon his chest, hefting his weapons in hand. He was a huge man, but he wasn't all that much bigger than Kari, after all. Kari drew a deep breath. His mind became a pool of water. He took another breath. His muscles relaxed into their places, ready to be coiled and fired. Another breath, and his Khajiiti eyesight sharpened and focused on his opponent. He raised his arms and lifted his tail for balance. As he sprang forward, Thorri raised his weapons and advanced.  
  
Thorri had one arm raised to strike; the other arm turned the blade across his front for defense and quick slashing. Kari was upon him before his could bring down his first strike. With one arm, Kari stopped his attacking hand; the other arm pinned his parrying wrist to his chest, rendering his wrist and therefore blade useless, and Kari headbutted him in the nose, making him falter. Thorri recovered his attacking arm, but Kari had twisted his defending arm so far that he had let go of his other weapon. He now only had the one. Kari leapt back just as Thorri thrust forward with the tip of the blade. They were dancing around each other, trying to make it last for their audience.  
  
Kari’s hands floated out in front of him. Thorri kept his sword tip out, making it hard for Kari to get in close. This was always the problem with shorter swords and daggers; they didn't need space to swing and they were perfectly capable of stabbing. Kari stepped in and out, tempting Thorri to strike. He leapt just in range; Thorri took the bait and thrusted, but Kari twisted to the side, dodging the thrust. He grabbed Thorri's sword wrist with his left hand and swung his right palm up under his chin. The movement was sharp enough to bring Thorri off balance and to his knees, but not sharp enough to knock him unconscious. The sword dropped from his hand. His other arm grasped at Kari's neck ineffectually. Kari kept him like that, long enough for everyone to see, and then a little longer.

He'd won. Scattered applause rose, and some of the Stormcloaks shook their heads incredulously. Galmar actually cracked a smile. Ulfric simply turned and headed back into the Palace.  
"I owe Ulfric a drink," Galmar said in his gravelly baritone. "I didn't think you would win."

"Ulfric bet on me? I clearly misjudged him."

"Well, he didn't misjudge you. Glad to have you. Come find me when you've taken off your armour and you can take the oath."

"Kari!"

His head whipped up. "Ralof!"

A bright, rosy face grinned at him. "You made it here, I see. Joined the Stormcloaks?"

"They gave me a test before they'd accept me."

Ralof frowned. "A test? Was that why you fought that giant?"

"You saw that? They didn't think a Khajiit would be any good."

"No, no, sometimes they do test recruits."

"Not Nords, I'll bet."

"Sometimes. Don't be too harsh. They need to be sure they have good fighters."

"I am a good fighter. No one seems to believe me when I say so."

"Yes, but do you have a reputation as one?"

"Yes," he replied bluntly. "In Elsweyr I am the Tiger of Ra'vin. Shredder of Skins."

"You sound like real trouble."

"Depends whose side you're on."

"Perhaps it's best if you keep your past to yourself. Many here have a hatred for bandits."

"You asked."

Ralof snorted. "Where are you staying?"

"At the inn."

"Me too. Come find me once you've finished your business and we'll spin yarns over a cup of ale."

Kari stowed his armour in his pack before returning to the Palace. The guards greeted him warmly and opened the doors for him. The steward Jorleif led him to Galmar.

"Ready, Ripper?"

"Lead me through it."

They stood in the war-room, Galmar reciting, Kari repeating. They were stark, strong words, and as he repeated them back to Galmar, Kari found he meant them. In the dark hallway behind Galmar he saw someone watching - a shoulder, a hard eye, some honey hair - Ulfric. Maybe the Jarl wasn't as cold as he'd been led to believe.  
They finished the oath, and Galmar handed him a folded, stormy blue cloak.  
"This is yours." A smile cracked over that battered face for the second time, bathing stony features in light. "Now you can join us finding the Jagged Crown."

"The Jagged Crown?" Kari repeated. " 'Maw unleashing razor snow, of dragons from the blue brought down...' "

" 'Births the walking winter's woe, the High King in his jagged crown', " Galmar finished. "You know the verse?"

"I have been in Skyrim for a long time."

"I know where it is."

"You're really sending men to find it?" Kari's tail twitched. It was a waste of time. And men, if anyone got killed. They would be put to better use building fortifications or picking off Imperial camps.

"It is a symbol of Skyrim's ancient sovereignty. It belongs to the High King. Ulfric. He wasn't convinced, either. But we need a symbol. We need legitimacy. You are coming with me and four other men. One of them I think you know. Ride with us to Korvanjund."

Galmar’s footsteps faded from the stone. The Jagged Crown. It seemed a pointless chase, and Kari almost wanted to refuse. But he was in no place to defy orders. Suddenly he remembered why he liked to play by his own rules. Just as suddenly, he remembered Ulfric’s eyes staring at him, in the fires of Helgen, in the torchlight of the palace, in the darkness of the hall. Kari was intrigued, and that was as good a reason as any.


	2. Doubts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kari finds the Jagged Crown and returns it to Ulfric. He wonders why on Nirn he decided to join the Stormcloaks - his doubts are echoed by a skooma-smoking friend.

Horse hooves crunched into frosty grass as they made their way across the Pale. Slow going, but the men made small talk at times and hummed to themselves at other times. Kari tried to remember why he had chosen to follow Ulfric in the first place. He had no love for the Empire, certainly; he thought they had no business ruling over another nation whose people were perfectly capable of ruling themselves. And he was filled with anger when he remembered how the Empire had left Elsweyr to be ruled by the Dominion.

Neither did he have any great loyalty to the Stormcloaks or to Ulfric. He was a charismatic leader, to be sure. He had ideas and passions and plans. Kari understood why people followed him. But Kari had killed too many people and seen too many people die for their glorious, lofty rhetoric to fight for something so inconcrete himself. He needed a solid plan in place before he would fight for any ideals. Passion alone fell flat on its face, and he wasn’t sure that Ulfric had much more than passion alone. Maybe Ulfric was not as faultless as his Stormcloaks believed. No, he didn't follow Ulfric for his rhetoric alone. There was something else.  
  


"Eh, Ripper?" It was Ralof's voice. He looked at Kari expectantly. Had he asked him something?

"What?"

"Did you see the Dragonborn join up yesterday? He came in with mismatched armour and a strange-looking bow on his back, and Ulfric accepted him on the spot."

"Of course," Kari replied. "He has a reputation for killing things."

A woman named Thora rode up next to Ralof. "He can shout, too, like Ulfric. Only better."

Kari yawned. "Have you heard him shout? Or are you just spreading rumour?"

"No, it's true," Ralof said. "He was called up to High Hrothgar by the Greybeards."

"Either way, he'll be good to have on our side." Thora nodded to herself. "Maybe we'll fight alongside him someday. Hey, Kari, I’ve been meaning to ask: do you always fight without a weapon?"

"I am never without a weapon. I am a weapon."

Ralof just grinned and looked between his companion's faces. Thora rolled her eyes.

"Fine talk," she said, and they fell into silence again.  
  


They charged into Korvanjund in disorganised ranks. There were only the six of them, but the Imperials had discovered the location of the Jagged Crown, too, and the Stormcloaks were horribly outnumbered. They snuck onto the Imperials camping outside the entrance, but they were mobbed by the soldiers inside. Galmar swung his battleaxe from side to side, annihilating the men in his path. They broke like twigs. Kari caught the men avoiding Galmar and disarmed and blinded most of them. On Galmar’s other side Ralof and Thora faced the majority of the Imperials, the other two Stormcloaks catching whatever soldiers fell through the initial line.  
  


For every one Ralof killed, Galmar killed two, and Kari, three. They lost one man to the Imperials. Another was killed by draugar. By the end of it all, they were bitter and tired. With blood-sticky claws, Kari plucked the Jagged Crown from the draugr's shrivelled head. It was an impressive object, to be sure, but it was only a crown.

"You should be the one to take it to Ulfric," Thora said, nursing an arm wound. "We would have been slaughtered without your fists."

It was supposed to be an honour, but it didn't feel like one.  
  


Ulfric was sitting reading when Kari trudged in. He thumped up to the throne, stood on the lowest stair, and laid the crown at Ulfric's feet.

"There's the crown. It’s real after all."

Ulfric looked up at Kari, then picked up the crown and put it to the side.

"Good work. I owe Galmar a drink."

"We lost good soldiers. I hope it was worth it."

Ulfric glared. "Those who die in our cause help to free Skyrim. Never doubt it." He sat forward and leaned down so his mouth was at Kari's ear. "And never doubt me."

Ulfric straightened and picked up a bearded axe from next to the throne. Kari fought the angry growl that rose in his throat.

"Deliver this to Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun. He'll know what it means."

"You are giving him a chance."

"Of course."

"You think he will side with you?"

"I hope so. There will be no unnecessary bloodshed if I can help it."

Kari said nothing in reply but took the axe from Ulfric's grasp and turned on his heel.  
  


"So it has come to this." Balgruuf turned the axe over in his hands. His voice was heavy and his shoulders slumped. "I had hoped he would do the fighting himself, but he has chosen to involve the whole city."

"Jarl, no one has to be killed," Kari said. Balgruuf's eyes shot up to look at him. "Ulfric would prefer to occupy Whiterun peacefully."

"There can be no peace. I cannot just give him my city without a fight. This axe may be a gesture, but there can be only one reply. I won't side with the Stormcloaks. Return it to him."

With that, Balgruuf thrust the axe handle in Kari's direction. As Kari turned to leave, he heard Balgruuf's low words.

"A Stormcloak. I expected better from you."  
  


The caravan came into sight as soon as Kari cleared the top of the hilly road. His horse whinnied under him. He pushed her into a trot.

Presumably the traders were on their way towards Riften, but currently the four Khajiit were passing under the shadow of High Hrothgar. Kari recognised all of them. He came up alongside one in full steel armour: their guardian. The man drew his sword when Kari came too close, then sheathed it as he recognised him.

"Ah, Ri'Kash,” the guardian said with a purr in his voice, “my dear friend. It has been so long."

"Kharjo. How goes the caravan?"

"It goes. Come, let's make a fire. It is time we rested anyway.” He grinned and his eyes flashed greedily. “We have moon sugar.”

A smile spread across Kari's face as honeyed memories of the drug passed through his thoughts. "Any trouble with the caravan?"

"Just the cold."

"Ten years and I have never really gotten the chill out of my skin."

"I know it. Why did I ever leave Elsweyr?"

Kharjo set about building a fire and Kari glanced at their surroundings. Stony road in either direction, delicate blue and red mountain flowers on both sides, and no one in sight. Sometimes Skyrim seemed so stark and cold he wondered that anyone survived there. They settled onto cushions once the flames of the fire pit had sprung into being. A bitter southern breeze bullied the fire down into the ground, but it persevered. Kharjo's companions secured the caravan at the side of the road and waved a greeting at Kari before talking amongst themselves.

"Why do you not trade outside Windhelm?” Kari folded his legs under himself. “You must pass it every time you travel to Dawnstar."

"And be spat at while losing money?" Kharjo hissed a laugh. "No, my friend. We are barely welcome in Skyrim, but in Windhelm we are truly unwanted."

"I have met Nords there who are perfectly welcoming."

"Yes, and have you met Jarl Ulfric? He hates the so-called beast races. Argonians are not even allowed in the city. And he hates elves, of course. A city with such a man as jarl is not worth our time."

Kari was silent. The sound of Kharjo's skooma pipe filled the air. "I joined the Stormcloaks."

Kharjo sputtered from inhaling too quickly. "Why in Alkosh's name would you do such a thing?"

"I...am not sure."

"That does not sound like a reason to join that man."

Kari shrugged. "I am riding back to Whiterun from Windhelm. Let me give you a warning. Don't be in Whiterun in the next few days."

Kharjo's eyes bore into Kari's face, and he found he couldn't meet his friend's gaze.

"I thought your days of slaughter were over," he said finally.

Kari had thought so, too. He had gone from chieftaincy to being a bandit, pirate, and smuggler. And then, a fugitive. He'd never decided to stop killing, but he had decided to stop massacring. The question was, which was this? Were the Stormcloaks justified in killing their fellow Nords? Or was the whole thing really a ploy of Ulfric's to silence everyone who went against his rule? Kari already knew the man couldn't stand criticism.

Kharjo sighed. "I don't envy you all this warfare."

"It is the only thing I am good at."

"Kharjo, too. Why else am I bodyguard of this caravan? But I kill bandits, not the brothers and sisters of my fellow soldiers."

Kari fell silent.

"Why do you fight for that man?"

"I am not sure. He is not fond of Khajiit, that is certain. Perhaps it is his spirit. He is honest, more honest than his opponents think. He does not hide. He is moved by passion, not politics or greed. He loves Skyrim. So do I."

"He is full of anger and hate."

"You think so? Then I understand him better than most."

"Be careful you do not end up fighting all his battles for him. Perhaps you should desert and become a trader with us. Or a farmer. You could go to Hammerfell and sail ships for people who want to travel. Anything but this mess in Skyrim. Don't get involved."

"It is too late for that. It is my fight, too. You know I believe a people should rule itself. I am part of the people here, now."

“You are not a Nord.”

“No. But I understand their nature.”

Kharjo began to laugh and Kari looked at him curiously. “You certainly understand their obsession with braids." He pointed at the braids in Kari's hair and beard. The skooma pipe hung askew from his mouth as he grinned. Then the mirth faded from his face and he took another pull. "I think you are making excuses because you can’t stay away from the fighting.”

Kari snorted. “Maybe so.” They stared into the flames, ever-changing, uniquely fluid. If he stared into them long enough, Kari knew he would start to see faces. Ghosts, maybe, the faces of those he’d killed or lost. It was said some men could see the future in the flames. He only ever saw the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is getting off to a slow start - it gets more exciting, I promise, starting next chapter. :)


	3. Warrior's Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kari shakes off the nightmares from his past and helps the Stormcloaks take Whiterun. Returning to Windhelm, he wakes another warrior from his own troubled sleep.

Warm sun on his fur. The smell of dry dirt in his nostrils. A sharp breeze lifted his whiskers and he purred as he opened his eyes. He stood in the centre of a curved line of tents. Their pitched fabric, in all the warm colours of the desert, flapped with a familiar, soft noise. He could see a woman coming towards him, her head covered against the sun in a bright red hood, golden, jewelled strands hanging from her neck. She was his Clan Mother. Azadha. Behind her followed the women and children of his clan. They held baskets of food and reeds for weaving. And behind them he could just see the warriors, tattoos and rings and tattered ears. They were the people of his region. Some of them he had grown up with. The others had joined him under one banner when he led them all in raids against their neighbours. He knew almost all of them personally, knew their scents and their smiles. He looked on them kindly and scanned each of their faces.

Then a humid, close air filled his lungs, and dust kicked up in his eyes. The people were screaming and Azadha was stumbling towards him, hissing curses, her fur burnt and her blood seeping through the budi ripped to tatters around her torso. She fell at his feet with a malediction on her lips. Suddenly she turned to ash. He looked up to see his people strewn out before him. The kits had curled up in the dirt and were still. Their mothers were statuesque pillars of ash, their faces in snarls and their claws outreaching to defend their children. The warriors he could barely make out, not because they were the furthest from him, but because their bodies were ripped into pieces and left in the powdery dust. There were his people, still and dead and silent, and only he was left alive.

  
  


He woke up and saw shimmering arms of light high above him in the growing dawn. Huge, green bands stretched across the sky. Silent and huge and utterly mystifying. There was no sight in all of Skyrim that he loved more than the aurora.

Somewhere nearby he heard men hammering and wood groaning. They were assembling the instruments of war. This arsenal the Stormcloaks had conjured in so little time was impressive: men, of course, and weapons, and now catapults. Kari preferred small bands of men and sneak attacks to all-out siege. Warfare on a large scale was foreign and uncomfortable to him.

A drum sounded across the camp, rousing the men to activity. There would be time to wolf down a meal - for some, the last they would ever have - and time to put on their armour, but little else. Kari would have to make time to meditate before battle as was his habit.

He took a long swig of water and stood up, looking around the camp. These men and women were full of spirit, every last one of them. Many could even swing a sword. He knew some of them. Ralof. Thora. Snorri, who only had nine fingers and always played pranks on people. Etienne, the Breton who'd married a Nord farmer. Thorri, of course, who had turned out to be a great friend of Kari's. Not all of them could live through today. The odds were simply against them. He wondered which of his friends' pyres he would light that night.

Thora ambled up on his right and punched him in the shoulder.

"Come on, Ripper. We're getting our gear together. Since your hands are always empty maybe you can help."

  
  


They were called to muster by a battle drum, and Galmar addressed them. Kari didn't really hear the words. He knew they were meant to put courage into their hearts and make them feel the sacrifice was worth it. Maybe those words helped some Stormcloaks. Kari didn't need them. He didn't fight on passion. He fought on cold reason and survival. Occasionally anger. If there was an enemy in front of him, he would kill them. His heart went no further than that.

The battle-horn sounded. They drew their weapons. They marched forward. The missiles came flying and crashed into the walls of Whiterun, sending stone chips hurtling through the air. Dust started to come their way in huge clouds, and they fought through the strange fog as they came upon Imperials and militia.

The first man he killed hadn’t even seen him. Kari had simply walked up to him and twisted his neck.

He stepped forward faster than any of the others. An arrow flew past his shoulder just as he stepped to the side. Sprinting he positioned himself at the foot of the wall so he couldn't be shot at. Ralof followed suit behind him, swinging his hammer at a little Imperial man. Arrows flew overhead, finding their targets in the advancing Stormcloaks. Soldiers shrieked and fell to the ground still swinging their swords. A man came at Kari without a helmet on; Kari blocked his swing and stuck his claws into the man's eye sockets. Blood oozed out around his fingers. He could feel the man’s breath on his wrist as he screamed. Kari threw him to the ground. He extracted his claws and stepped over the howling soldier. A din filled the air, making individual voices indistinct; boulders crashed into the walls and ground, metal clashed and sheared, people cried out in pain. One woman's arm he broke by twisting her shield the wrong way. Kari broke the nose of another Imperial when he bashed the shield rim into his face. He hissed at his victim in battle-fury.

Some of his opponents he recognised. He'd traded with one, passed two others on the street. They were just people, many of them. Unfortunately for them, most were not fighters.

The Stormcloaks fought their way to the gates. Kari leapt into the gatehouse, another Stormcloak close behind him, and they both beelined for the gate levers. He gripped his lever and looked the man in the eye. As he did so, he barked a laugh: it was the man from the cart in Helgen, the man who had turned out to be Dragonborn. His armour was indeed mismatched and his bow looked like an antique.

"Shall we?" Kari cried. The Dragonborn grinned. They pulled their levers simultaneously, the ropes gave, and the gates groaned open. A cry rose up from the Stormcloaks outside the gatehouse and Kari knew they were one step closer to taking the city.

More fighting; a fist to a skull here, claws in a soft leather cuirass there, a snapped spear and twisted neck, and once a nosebone rammed up into a brain. He heard soldiers perish behind him, heard their dying screams and bodies thumping onto the ground. In the midst of battle he had no time to hope that none of them were his friends.

And then without quite realising it at first they came to the doors of Dragonsreach. They waited for Galmar before breaking open the doors; he came roaring up through the ranks with his bearskin covered in blood. A mage who had followed him let loose a volley of fiery missiles. They burnt and battered the doors until the portal could be opened with an axe hack.

Stormcloaks crashed into the hall like water through a crevice. Jarl Balgruuf in his armour drew his sword and rushed at Galmar; Kari dispatched one man, two, three, and saw Galmar force Balgruuf to the ground with the armour-pick end of the warhammer at his throat.

"Stand down!" the Jarl shouted. "Stand down!"

The words spread down the steps and into the city. Men and women stilled at each other’s throats as the fighting stopped in a wave.

"We did it," someone said at Kari’s shoulder, and he realised it was Thorri. "We took Whiterun."

Kari looked at him deadpan. "No thanks to you, you useless thug." Thorri glanced at him, and they gave weary, breathless laughs.

They watched Balgruuf argue with Galmar and the Grey-Mane leader. Eventually Balgruuf’s shoulders slumped in defeat and he waved his hand dismissively.

"Ripper Kari," Galmar barked. "Send word to Ulfric. We have set up a new Jarl, and the city is mostly intact. Go, ride to Windhelm." His mouth twitched. "And then sleep for a week."

 

It was past midnight when Kari's exhausted horse reached the Windhelm stables. He himself was nearly dead on his feet, but he managed to get into the Palace. The guards recognised him by now and didn't question his presence at so late an hour. Ulfric was probably asleep, of course, and Kari was left to find the Jarl's quarters on his own.

He peered into various rooms, some of them empty, and worked his way upwards. He reached the last door. The highest and loneliest room in the Palace. A chill blew across his shoulders and he shivered.

Kari pushed open the door silently and padded inside. The Jarl was asleep, shoulders tensed against some unseen pressure. His skin was bare against the dark grey furs of the bedding. He lay on his side, facing away from Kari. What little exposed skin there was showed marks of battle, or torture: thick, twisting scars against soft, pale white.

Kari knelt on one knee alongside the bed, and took a breath to speak. In a split second, Ulfric had twisted round and swung a dagger; Kari blocked him instinctually. Recognition flashed in Ulfric's eyes.

"You move too quietly," the Jarl said, his voice made deeper by the gauze of sleep.

"I am Khajiiti."

Ulfric grunted. "What is it?"

"We have taken Whiterun."

A small weight seemed to be taken off his shoulders. "Good. We control the centre now." He let out a breath. "Come see me tomorrow when Galmar returns. We'll talk strategy."

"You sleep lightly."

Ulfric frowned.

"I recognise a warrior's haunted sleep when I see it."

"The knife."

"You should learn how to fight without weapons. You will never be defenseless."

"It was my mind that was defenseless when I was tortured."

"You can train that, too."

He looked up at Kari curiously.

"You have no idea what goes on inside my mind, and yet you insist on giving advice." There was no anger in his words, only a quiet wonder. "You are a strange man. But not, I think, a foolish one."

"I can help you. You will sleep more soundly."

"You presume much. Did you not join us only a week ago?"

"I go where I am useful."

His eyes scanned Kari's face.

"A man who survives taking a city by force is certainly useful."

"There are many corpses there with my claw marks in them."

"Why do you not use weapons?"

"Why does everyone insist on asking me that?"

"Forget it. You must be tired. There is an empty room down the hall a few doors. Take it. You rode back here after the battle; I think you've earned a real bed."

"I will sleep like a kitten."

"At least you are able to. Now, get out. I am sleeping."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kari certainly knows how to avoid a question, doesn't he?


	4. Fists and Claws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kari shows his Jarl a thing or two about fighting without a weapon. The Stormcloaks face an unexpected enemy when they try to take Fort Neugrad in Falkreath Hold.

"You're going to Falkreath," Ulfric announced as he strode into the war-room.

“Just like that?” Kari asked. He could almost feel Galmar twitch at his unruliness.

Ulfric gave him a hard side-eye, ignoring the comment. “We’ll wait for a week, to give the men some rest before dispatching them to Whiterun. We’ll keep some numbers in Whiterun, to secure the city and guard against the west. But we’ll need some reinforcements in Falkreath, especially if the Imperials call in more men.”

“Why Falkreath?”

“It is an important position. If you haven’t noticed, it is near the border of Cyrodiil. Control over that hold gives us a strong defense against the Empire’s encroaching grasp.”

“If we have enough manpower.”

“Which is why we’ll wait until Whiterun is stable before drawing men from there. Do you always talk this much?”

Kari shrugged with nonchalance.

“It is easily defensible because of the terrain. Defending it once gained will be easier than taking it from the Imperials. I need my best fighters there. That includes you, Khajiit. Are you convinced yet?”

“You have more of a plan than I thought.”

Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced laughed softly over Kari’s shoulder. Ulfric glared at both of them.

“There is a reason I am Jarl of the old seat of the High King, Ripper.”

Kari nodded wearily. His body still ached from the siege of Whiterun and the long ride to Windhelm afterwards. A week would be long enough to recover, but it felt like the ‘liberation of Skyrim’ was a little haphazard. Yes, Ulfric did have plans, of some sort, more than Kari had thought - but the biggest flaw with his plans was not having enough men and women to fight for him. And he didn’t see Ulfric making many friends. Well, Kari wasn’t his advisor. It wasn’t his place to tell him what he should be doing.

So, naturally, he would horn in. Boundaries were made to be challenged.

Ulfric gave Galmar and Yrsarald their orders and they stepped from the room. He strode closer to Kari and fixed him with his gaze.

“So. What do you have to teach me?”

“Many things.”

“Shall we begin?”

 

The training room in the barracks had an area with open ground and straw padding. Normally it was used by Stormcloaks practicing their sparring or manoeuvres, but today it was empty, so Kari and Ulfric took their places in the centre.

“You know how to fight,” Kari began, “you know to be quick on your feet, and to always watch your opponent. I won’t teach you how to fight. I will teach you how to use yourself instead of hiding behind shields and depending on weapons. First, I will talk. A lot. I am tired and I will stand. You can move.”

Ulfric’s mouth curved ever so slightly upwards.

“You know how to punch and kick, I am sure.”

He nodded.

“They are basic skills. Every Nord boy and girl learns them as they grow up. And you served in the Imperial Legion. But you want to learn how to punch and kick so that your opponent is either out of the fight or dead. You need precision. You need to know where to hit. It’s like sizing up a man’s armour for weak points. We will start assuming your opponent is unarmoured.”

They continued that way, Kari instructing and pointing out where to hit and how to hit. Ulfric had very few questions. He was a fast learner, and his eyes followed Kari with extraordinary attention. When asked to reproduce a motion, he did so flawlessly almost every time.

“That is good. To finish I think we will practice some blocks. If someone attacks you with a one-handed weapon, you will need blocks to survive. A good pair of fitting gauntlets will go very far in not letting your hands get cut up, since you will get close to the weapon and you may be unlucky with nicks and cuts. Use your forearm. Like this.”

Kari showed him the motion. He repeated it.

“Good. Let me take some swings at you.”

He swung his arms from the side, at first slow and wide, then faster and less obvious. Ulfric kept up the pace easily.

“Now block with force. More force. More! Good. We should have matching bruises by the time we’re done.”

They continued and became comfortable with the rhythm of the practice. Kari threw an unexpected swing at Ulfric, and although he was taken aback, he managed to block it before Kari’s fist reached him.

“Why do you not let the Argonians inside the city?” Kari asked suddenly. The question had come to his lips almost without his thinking about it, but once he had asked it, he needed to know the answer.

Ulfric didn’t look at him but continued to block his swings. “The Dunmer and the Argonians” - block - “do not get along. It’s to” - block - “prevent violence in the city.”

Kari stopped swinging and took a step backwards.

“Really?”

“Of course.” Now he looked Kari in the face. “The Argonians invaded Morrowind, after all. I cannot blame them. They have been enslaved by the Dunmer for centuries. They hate each other.”

Stormcloaks had begun to hover by the doorway, back from rest or duties; some left in respect, others watched stealthily.

“I had heard it was because you hated Argonians.”

“That again. I assume we’re done here?”

“Yes. For today.”

Ulfric picked up the things he’d taken off - his boots, his furs, his gloves - and threw them over his shoulder. “I care little what others think.”

“I can tell.”

In response Kari got a glare; then the glare softened and there was a hint of a smile.

“You have nerve, Kari. It suits you.”  


For the next couple days they spent an hour or two, when Ulfric wasn’t busy, going over defenses and deadly attacks in the training room. Occasionally a guard would wander past and look in curiously to see his Jarl being taught by a Khajiiti brawler. Word spread about the huge new Stormcloak with a tail, who spent as much time at Ulfric’s side as Galmar Stone-Fist. Kari heard whispers of his own deeds; they grew each day more fantastical than the last. He laughed to himself. They had no idea of the things he’d actually done while in Elsweyr, but their stories sounded impressive enough.

 

"Another campaign, another boring journey through treacherous wilderness." Ralof sighed and rearranged his pack. They had no horses this time, because there were so many of them travelling. Yrsarald was the only one with a mount since he was a commander. Rain came spitting down in foggy sheets and by now the troops were fully soaked. They trudged through mud and rotting leaves. The sucking noise of their boots had been funny until the moisture soaked through to their feet. Now they were just waiting for nightfall so they could rest and dry out by a fire.

"It's times like this I wonder why I joined up," Ralof continued.

"I don't," Thora said.

"Why, do you have an especially good reason?" Edla asked. Edla was a giant of a woman, as tall as Kari, and she could drink any of the Stormcloaks under a table.

"Yes. My family have always been loyal to Talos. My brother is a priest of Talos. A Skyrim without worship of Tiber Septim, Ysmir, the greatest of Nords, is no Skyrim at all. The Empire breaks our spirit now because they refused to crush the Dominion when they had the chance. We owe them nothing. I am standing up for our freedom to be Nords."

"That is a _long_ reason," Edla said.

"Whatever gets you to camp," Kari added.

"I'm serious," Thora protested.

"I know," said Kari. "So am I. Beliefs sound all well and good in a warm hall over a horn of ale. But the beliefs that take you through the ugly times are the important ones."

"I didn't take you for a philosophical man," Ralof said.

"No, not especially. Those with something to really fight for live longer than those without."

"Huh."

Thora chuckled.

"What?"

" 'Fine talk'," she said softly.

"Let's have a song," Edla said. "This is all too serious for me." In her low, rich voice, she began to sing an old Nord song from the southern holds. Those marching beside and behind them picked it up after her. Their voices mixed into the forlorn tune and floated together through the trees.

 

Yrsarald was not as good at speeches as Galmar. He told them the Dragonborn was already inside the fort, freeing their imprisoned comrades, and they cheered a little. But the soldiers grew restless ("Get it over with, already," Ralof sighed) and when he was done they lined up resigned, waiting for the order to advance. The horn call came.

Arrows flew at them when they came in range. The Stormcloaks dashed in, every man praying he wouldn't be shot.

They reached the entryway and Kari wrenched apart the barricade while the Stormcloaks gave him covering fire with their arrows. The weak wood came apart, and way under the arch was free; he advanced, men behind him. In the courtyard Imperials threw away their bows and drew their swords. None of them had shields, the poor bastards. Easy pickings. Kari fought his way up a staircase to the parapet; an Imperial slipped past him to be slaughtered by the Stormcloaks behind him, and another swung his battleaxe at Kari's head. Kari dodged it just in time, and kicked the man in the knee before he had recovered from the swing. His knee was forced out of place and he stumbled in agony. Kari knocked him out and moved to the next man, who was hiding behind the stone base of a tower, shooting arrows at the Stormcloaks.

Above the din of battle a booming roar rent the sky. Half the men in Kari's field of vision crouched instinctively and almost everyone stopped fighting for a second to see if the sound was what they feared it was. Nothing could be seen in the sky; then a huge span of leathery, scaled wings swooped low over the fort and a gout of flame swept over the men on the parapet. Some of them ran, their hair and armour still on fire. One fell off the wall to his death. Imperial and Stormcloak alike dove under cover and took out their bows if they had them. Kari crouched under the arch at the foot of a tower.

The dragon swooped again, hanging in the air, and spat another shoot of fire over the stone. The men ducked. Kari heard only one scream this time. The dragon's tail swung like a battering ram into the fort wall, sending rocks flying through the air and making deep indentations where they landed. It rose in the air again. A gust of air from its wings lifted their hair and they laboured to keep their eyes open in its force. Kari hugged the stone arch. With his head turned against it, he could just see Thora curled against a crenellation. Her eyes were squeezed shut and her lips were moving as she gasped out a prayer. To Talos, he was sure. He himself said a silent word to Arkay, god of beginnings and endings, and hoped his doom wasn't to be in the forge of dragonflame.

There came the terrible rush of wind over wings. Terror gripped Kari's heart, the kind of fear he had not felt for years, not since he had seen his people slaughtered by flames and arrows as he had watched helplessly. There had been no stopping the fire then, and there was no stopping it now as it warmed the stones, grass smouldering in the cracks. Names of gods came to his lips that he had not spoken since he left Elsweyr. Jone, Jode, Alkosh, Khenarthi - amazing what the smell of burning flesh could dredge up from the past.

The ground rocked. The dragon had landed. This was their chance, if only they could be roused from their terror. Kari peered around the tower arch. The dragon perched on the wall, facing into the courtyard, its left side closest to him. Kari sprang out from his shelter, and a savage feline roar ripped from his throat, a primal call to action. The others leapt from their places, shouts on their lips. They charged the dragon from every side. The beast looked round at the onslaught, surprised, and lashed out with its jaws. An Imperial was unlucky enough to be caught between those razor teeth. Soldiers raked its side and vulnerable belly with blades; Kari got close enough to rip scales from its skin by hooking his claws under their edges. The dragon roared, in pain or annoyance, and snaked its head towards Kari. He could feel the heat grow in its throat, feel the air sucked away in a vacuum as it took a breath to scorch him. He was too close to get away. He was going to burn.

Then Edla thrust her claymore up into its mouth, through the soft tissue into its skull, and its fire died out before it had begun. All that came from the dragon’s mouth was a gust of dying air as it collapsed on the stone wall.

No one breathed or moved until it dawned on them that the thing was dead. Kari dropped to his knees as all the fear ran out of him. Edla squeezed his shoulder before picking up another blade from the ground and hefting it. The Stormcloaks and Imperials stared at each other in stunned silence. For a short time they had been brothers again, united against real danger, but now they were supposed to kill each other for reasons that escaped them at the moment. Both sides wielded their weapons reluctantly. No one struck.

"We surrender," a man on the Imperial side called out. "We won't fight you."

Kari stood up. None of the Stormcloaks seemed ready to speak. Where was Yrsarald? He was supposed to be commanding them.

"We accept your surrender," Kari called out. The Imperials put down their weapons. "You are our prisoners now."

They talked amongst themselves as the Stormcloaks collected their weapons. Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced worked his way through the soldiers towards Kari.

"Ripper, Ulfric said nothing about prisoners."

"That's too bad. You didn’t give a command just then. We are taking prisoners."

Yrsarald shifted his weight from foot to foot, deliberating.

"What would you do? Kill them all? We cannot set them free to go back to the Imperials; we need to keep the Falkreath border strong. They helped kill a dragon. Whether you like it or not, they are our brothers-in-arms. Even the Cyrodiils among them. Put them to death and the Stormcloaks really will be as cruel as the rumours say."

"I'm in charge here."

"Yes, you are," Kari said sharply. "I trust you will make the right decision. You will not kill these men. If you do I will have no part in it."

He turned his back on Yrsarald, half expecting him to give the order after all - Ulfric's commanders were not thinking men, more sycophants than generals, even though Kari respected them. But he heard no order come from Yrsarald, and by then the moment had passed. He could guess what Ulfric would have to say on the matter.

Yes, Kari’s days of massacring were over. He was not made to go back on his oath. He was in the right fight, after all.

Looking over himself for injuries, he found only a few cuts, and turned his attention toward the wounded Stormcloaks and prisoners. As he looked at them, he saw the faces of men and women he’d fought alongside. His heart swelled with pride and loyalty. He saw more than just soldiers. The thought made him stop. It had been years since he’d regarded his fellow warriors as true brothers-in-arms, not just hands and eyes behind weapons. He knew these people, and he realised he _cared_ about them. He even cared about the men fighting for the Imperials. He cared about the Stormcloaks, and he cared about their cause. The rebellion wasn’t just an idea that he supported logically and unfeelingly because it made sense. Perhaps he wasn’t fighting on cold reason, after all.


	5. An Incident in Markarth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a clash with Ulfric, Kari is sent to Markarth on an underhanded mission for the Stormcloaks, and gets into more trouble than he bargained for. One must pay the piper sooner or later.

Kari handed Ulfric the report Yrsarald had written and waited as he read it. From time to time Ulfric glared at him over the top of the paper. When he was finished reading he placed the report on the table and paced to and fro a few times, his hands clasped behind his back.

“I did not give any orders to take prisoners,” he said at last. His voice came low and quiet, filled with restrained energy.

“Did you not read the part where they helped kill the dragon?”

“You cannot give orders in place of the actual commander.”

“He said nothing.”

“You should have waited.”

“And miss our opportunity? They surrendered! They would fight us no more!”

Ulfric’s voice boomed. “You cannot ignore the chain of command! I gave no order to take prisoners!” In two steps he was face-to-face with Kari and had a finger pointed accusingly at his chest. “From the beginning you have disregarded my orders and undermined my authority! I should have you penalised. If you were not so useful, I would do so.”

Kari found he wasn’t intimidated in the least. On the contrary, he felt oddly...excited.

Well. That was new.

He met Ulfric’s steady, grey-green eyes and came even closer. They were so close now they were practically touching. Kari’s tail flicked from side to side in a soft curve, and he saw Ulfric’s eyes follow it before locking with his gaze again. His scent was in Kari’s nose now, furs and leather and faint bitter metal mixed with the earthy, warm smell of his skin. He came closer, still staring into Ulfric’s eyes, and moved his head next to Ulfric’s cheek, with his lips by Ulfric’s ear. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved a hair’s breadth.

Kari felt a purr grow involuntarily in his chest and pulled away suddenly, turning his back on Ulfric.

“You are not upset about the prisoners,” he said softly. “You do not like others disagreeing with you.”

“Why are you so rebellious? You joined this cause for a reason, and yet you show doubt at every turn.”

“What do you want to hear? That I am a barbarian? That I cannot put aside my own ego and fight for another? That is not it.”

Ulfric was silent as he waited for a real answer.

“I respect the Stormcloaks. I respect what you’re trying to do. I agree with you. Take back Skyrim from the Empire! Restore Talos worship! Things worth fighting for. I want to see that Skyrim.” Kari sighed and closed his eyes. “But I fear that while you are doing it, you will... lose sight of those things. You will be caught up if you are not careful. Every man in front of you will become an enemy to your eyes, and those who would be your allies will shun you instead.” He turned to look at Ulfric. The man’s face had lost its hard lines. “And when you have finally forgotten what you are really fighting for, and killed every man for the sake of it, you will look around and realise you have also destroyed yourself.”

The Jarl’s gaze fell to the floor.

“You are fighting for your people. Remember that it is also your people that you are fighting against.”

“I know that,” Ulfric retorted.

“So act like it.”

Anger flashed in his eyes, then he breathed deeply and it subsided. “Why do you follow me?”

“Tell me why you fight.”

“What, are you teaching me another lesson, now?”

“You wanted to know why I rebel against you. It is because I am trying to help you. Now tell me why you are fighting this war.”

“I need no reminders.”

“So remind _me_.”

“Very well.” He glared daggers. “I fight for the men I’ve held in my arms, dying on foreign soil. I fight for their wives and children, whose names I heard whispered in their last breaths. I fight for we few who did come home, only to find our country full of strangers wearing familiar faces." His voice boomed like thunder. "I fight for my people too impoverished to pay the debts of an Empire too weak to rule them, yet brands them criminals for wanting to rule themselves! I fight so that all the fighting I’ve already done hasn’t been for nothing. I fight because I must.”

In his fervour his hands had become fists and his shoulders had rolled back. He was the perfect image of a Nord king, tall and proud and ready to fight. The man was a true leader, if Kari had ever seen one.

“ _That_ is why I follow you.” Kari’s lip curled up in a smile. “You have honest ideals.”

Ulfric stared at Kari, still impassioned.

“I am on your side, Ulfric.”

“So listen to my orders.”

Kari shrugged. “All right. I will. But I would like to discuss them beforehand.”

Ulfric barked an incredulous laugh. “You are unbelievable.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You need me.”

“I do, damn you.”

Cocking his head to one side, Kari turned to leave.

“Kari.”

He stopped. “Yes?”

“The room here in the Palace is officially yours. Just so no ones takes it while you’re away.”

“It is an honour.”

“No, it’s a bed. Go away.”

 

Kari had left Windhelm for the Reach without speaking to Ulfric again, although Galmar handed him a note once they were on the road.

"From Ulfric," he'd said in his gruff voice, and left Kari to himself. He'd opened it with curiosity and something like hope, though he wasn't sure what for.

'Ripper,' it began, in Ulfric's even, tight handwriting, 'you know by now you're going to reclaim the Reach. Consider this our discussion.'

"That fetcher," he'd said to himself. But really, it was a gesture. He found himself smiling. If Ulfric had really wanted to anger him, he wouldn't have said anything at all. The note was his way of agreeing.

 

Kari didn't have time to stop at the Stormcloak camp. On orders he went straight to Markarth on some sneak-thief mission he’d tried to pass off to someone else. He was a warrior, not a thief. He’d tried to explain himself to Galmar, but the bear had only seen a Khajiit, and refused to listen. But the mission wasn’t the only reason he planned to sneak around Markarth, hoping he wouldn’t be seen. It had been three years, he reasoned. They probably wouldn't remember his face.

The towering walls of rock greeted him like an old friend. He'd almost forgotten their cold faces and rushes of water, but when he saw the Dwemer doors flashing in the sunlight he recalled who he was three years ago and how this city had made him feel. Alive. Dangerous. More dangerous than usual. He'd once heard a hired hand describe it perfectly: the city was made of flowing blood and silver. Perfect for an ambitious criminal. Or so Kari had thought.

He pulled his cloak around his shoulders and put his head down. If anyone looked closely they would see he did not belong here. His ears still stuck up and he cursed Skyrim for not having more Khajiit. A steep, narrow staircase grabbed his attention and led him up to a higher level of the city. The whole of Markarth was built haphazardly, its paths leading around like a maze, but he climbed slowly upwards until he came to the sprawling entrance to Understone Keep. The guards let him in without a wayward glance, and he let out the breath he hadn't realised he was holding. He'd avoided being seen, now all he had to do was...sneak into the steward's quarters and steal his personal belongings. He reconsidered his compliance.  Why hadn't he pointed out that being a Khajiit didn't necessarily make him stealthy?

In the entry hall, a priest was arguing with a well-armoured man with thinning hair. Kari came closer - Ysmir's beard, it was Thongvor Silver-Blood - and turned his head away as he passed, but he had seen the man's eyes fall on him and he knew he'd been noticed. Maybe they wouldn't do anything. Maybe they'd let him go.

He managed to climb up the stairs to the rooms and hallways of the keep without being noticed by the guards. The steward's quarters were usually nearby, but much less flashy and comfortable than the Jarl's. There, that room looked promising. He waited for the guard on patrol to turn his back before creeping down the hall and trying the door. Locked. Of course. He'd never perfected his lock picking skills as a bandit, instead leaving that role to others in the band, and he swore at himself that his fingers had forgotten their way around the inside of a lock. He stopped a few times, pausing whenever the guard was close enough to hear the faint sound of metal clinking on metal. After pausing for a fifth time, the lock clicked open, and he stole inside the room, straightening as he did so.

Finding the amulet of Talos was much easier than picking the lock. Kari slipped it in the breast pocket inside his cloak, the little axe just poking out the top, and waited for the guard to pass by again, watching through the cracked door. He had just left the private wing when he almost ran chest-to-chest into Raerek himself, who was clearly headed to his own quarters.

"Oh, I'm sorry, my lad."

"Raerek," Kari said in a low voice. He lifted the side of his cloak so Raerek could see the amulet. The steward stared blankly at him for a second, then his face fell as realisation dawned on him.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "No, not here. Follow me."

They went back into the private wing and into Raerek's quarters. He tutted at the already-unlocked door before shutting it behind Kari.

"What are you here for? What do you want?"

"I need you to do something for the Stormcloaks."

"Yes, yes, I guessed as much. What are you trying to extort?"

"I'm sure there's something you can do for us."

"I don't know what you mean."

Kari's gaze became dark and he towered over the old man. "I could make this public," he said, dangling the amulet of Talos in his face.

"Oh, alright, I'm sure we can come to some kind of agreement. There's a shipment of silver and weapons."

He looked up at Kari expectantly. Kari huffed. "And?"

"Oh, no. I'll say no more until we have a deal."

"Fine. Deal. Now tell me about this shipment."

"It's a wagon full of silver and weapons on its way to Solitude. It's guarded by Imperial soldiers, but it's moving slowly. You might be able to catch it."

Raerek was too smug for someone who was being blackmailed. Kari snarled at him and he started backwards. Good. Markarth was bringing out the criminal in him again. It wasn't entirely unwelcome.

"Here you are," and he dropped the amulet into the man's hands. "We'll be seeing you again soon, I'm sure."

Raerek grumbled something as Kari stole out of the chamber for a second time.

 

He had made it just outside the doors of the keep before he was seized by the arms and hit over the head. Darkness. The next thing he knew, he was lying on damp ground in a barely-lit rough-hewn room.

"Finally caught you." A voice came crawling across the stone. He knew it belonged to a Silver-Blood, but he wasn't sure which one. "We told you there was no getting away. Didn't believe us, did you?"

"It took you long enough," Kari said as he rolled over into his back. His hands and feet were tied. "I'm a little disappointed, actually."

"Shut up." A foot found its way to his ribs. "What are you doing here? Stealing again?"

"Nothing to do with you."

"Everything here is to do with us."

"Keep telling yourself that."

"You know, after you waylaid that caravan of ours, I was forced to explain, to the Imperial army, why exactly their shipment didn't arrive."

Must be Thonar. "You poor thing."

"No one makes a fool out of a Silver-Blood. Boys!"

Kari had been sizing up Thonar, figuring out how to take him down even with his hands tied, but now, five more men rushed into the room, and he knew there was no escaping a beating.

"Enjoy your stay in the Warrens."

Thonar turned on his heel. All Kari could see were the snarling faces of his thugs. Their feet found his ribcage, breaking one rib, two - he lost count at four. Two men held chains in their hands; they flung them down at him and the links wrapped themselves around his arms. He protected his face with his hands, but the metal bit his skin and drew blood from his forearms. Fists struck at his head; his ears rang, his nose bled. He swam in his own skull. Without thinking he took stock of his injuries, as he had been trained to do. Then, as the pain grew, his mind grew silent, and he faded away from himself.

They left him bleeding on a heap of rubbish.

 


	6. Bruises and Aches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beaten half to death, Kari makes it out of Markarth with the help of a drunk and a beggar. As he heals his wounds, memories of Elsweyr come back to him. Cameo by Cosnach, my favourite drunkard.

He woke up to a jab in the arm and mead-heavy breath in his face.

"Hey, friend. You alive?"

Kari groaned as his injuries woke up one by one.

"Hey. You don't look so good."

He tried to breathe. Whoever his company was leaned over him low and stared him in the face.

"Hey. You one of them Khajiit? I've never met one of you before."

A hiss escaped Kari's lips. The man backed away.

"Sorry," he said indignantly, and went away. That wasn't exactly Kari's intention. He needed whatever help he could get from this stranger. But he was too weak to call after him, and he watched the man's shadow fade away.

 

He wasn't dead yet, so maybe there was some chance of getting out of here. Hopefully the Silver-Bloods didn't have anyone stationed outside waiting for him in case he crawled out.

He tried to sit up. No, his ribs weren't having any of it. He fell back onto the trash heap with a growl. Maybe he was going to die here. Not exactly the blaze of glory he'd hoped for. But most men weren't so lucky.

 

He heard shuffling footsteps come close to him. The stranger again, if he wasn't mistaken. And another pair of feet.

"I was saving this for myself, but it looks like you need it more."

The man pulled Kari's jaw down - "oh, sorry, that must hurt" - and poured a cool, smooth liquid into his mouth. A healing potion. Kari gulped it eagerly, careful to catch every drop he could. He felt it knitting his insides together and knew it was healing his bruised, bleeding organs. He felt his cuts close up a little.

"Well you don't look much better, but I hope you feel better. I don't have any more." The stranger tossed the empty vial onto the trash heap.

Kari tried to sit up again. His bones were still broken - he'd need a healer for those, probably - and got a better look at his rescuer.

His age was obscured by the worn skin and layers of dirt on his face, but Kari guessed he was a man of anywhere between 25 and 45 years. Bloodshot eyes, stringy blond hair. Another man stood behind him, but Kari’s eyesight was too obscured to see him properly.

"Thank you," Kari wheezed. "I was close to death."

"Don't be too happy just yet. The Silver-Bloods did you in good. What did you do to them? Never mind. I don't really want to know."

"What's your name?"

"Cosnach." He grinned and bowed comically. "Occasional guard and professional drunk. This here is Garvey. Welcome to our beautiful neighbourhood."

Kari felt a laugh in his stomach but only managed a cough.

"I suppose you won't be wanting to stay long."

"Ha. No."

"Can't say I'm offended."

"I need to get out of here." He remembered the information he'd wrested from Raerek and hoped it wasn't too late to tell Galmar.

"All right. I'll help you out. But if I get beat up for helping you, I'm going to...do...something. I haven't decided. Can you stand up?"

Kari nodded and Cosnach pulled him up with an arm under his shoulder. Kari's bones and aching muscles protested and he let out a groan.

Cosnach paused.

"No, keep going. I have to get out of here."

"No. Wait. I thought you might need Garvey’s help. Down you go. Garvey’s a healer,” he said as he let Kari back down onto the rubbish heap.

"I'm not a healer," the man in rags interjected. "I just spent a few years at the College in Winterhold. I know some spells that might help you. I’m a bit rusty, though."

"Have at it," Kari said. Restoration spells couldn't go wrong, could they?

The beggar put his hands on Kari's arms and his eyes bore a hole in Kari's chest in concentration.

"Now. How does that one go...ah, yes. Or maybe. No. That's right."

He shut his eyes and a golden light glowed from his hands for a moment. It was warm and it took away Kari's pain, for the most part. He didn't know what else it was doing. It faded as soon as it had come and the beggar shrugged.

"That's all I've got. Can't say the College did me much good."

"That's okay. I can make it out to...I can make it out. Here" - he dug around inside his soft leather armour, wincing - "for your troubles."

Twenty septims. It wouldn't get them far but maybe it would go towards another healing potion.

"Oh, I didn't help you for money," Cosnach said. The man at his side glowered at him.

"For your next drink, then."

"Well, alright, then!"

"Now go before anyone sees you with me."

"What if they see you getting out of the city?"

"They'll have bigger things to worry about soon," he replied cryptically, and went on his way. A blast of fresh air came at him when he opened the rickety door of the Warrens. He still had his cloak, so he pulled up the hood and ducked through the city. It was slow going, painful as it was, but he made it out the city gates without being shot or accosted, so he counted it as a victory.

 

The way to the Stormcloak camp was rockier and rougher than he remembered and he prayed he wouldn't run into any Forsworn. It was pitch black by the time the Stormcloak fires came into view, and they invigorated him just enough to stumble into camp. He collapsed by the armourer and was aware of being carried into a tent, into a relatively clean bed.

"Galmar," he said. "I need to speak with Galmar."

The man came running, bear-head helmet bobbling, and stood over Kari's cot.

"Ripper. What happened to you?"

"Never mind. I blackmailed Raerek." He stopped to ease a breath. "There's a wagon of silver and weapons on the road to Solitude. We might catch it still."

"We have some men out there we can send. Good work, Ripper. I'll see if we don't have a healer in our midst."

Galmar’s eyes lingered on Kari for a second, approving and sympathetic, before he disappeared through the tentflap. A Stormcloak came in a few minutes later, eyes wide and mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“I’m a...I can heal,” she said.

“Thank Arkay for that.”

She came close and sat next to the cot, looking Kari up and down. Her eyebrows twitched nervously. “By Mara, you...you really took a beating.” She began to peel off his armour.

“Broken ribs. And bruises everywhere.”

“Looks like a broken cheekbone, too. And you’ve lost some blood.”

“Wonderful.”

“This will take some time. I can heal you in intervals. I’m not...great at healing. And I don't have a lot of energy. It’ll take a few times, I’m afraid.”

“Do what you can.”

She lay one hand on his chest and one on his cheek and squeezed her eyes shut. Warmth spread through her hands into Kari’s chest and skull, deeper than the beggar’s magic could, and seemed to vibrate through his ribcage. She pressed harder and seemed to be holding her breath.

“There. I’ve mended your ribs and your cheekbone. You shouldn’t do anything, though” - she pushed him back down as he tried to sit up - “they need to be left alone to really heal. They’re just put back together. I’ll come back later.” She stood up and turned to leave.

“What’s your name?”

“Birgit,” she said, and flashed a shy smile.

“Thank you, Birgit. Talos be with you.”

She inclined her head and ducked outside. Kari picked up the rag in the bucket of water that a soldier had brought him earlier and tried to wash the blood from his arms and face. He used to know a little healing magic. Unfortunately that was another one of the skills usually delegated to another member of his bandit party. He made a mental note to never be lazy again.

Tack of blood wiped away, he leaned back again and took one deep breath before he dropped off to sleep.

 

Drifting in and out consciousness, the sounds of the camp reached him through the fabric of the tent, vague and nebulous at times, clear at others. He was fully awake when he heard the sounds of marching soldiers. Edla's head appeared suddenly in the opening to the tent and her gaze moved downward to find Kari.

"We're taking Fort Neugrad," she said matter-of-factly, as if it had already happened.

"Fight well."

She pursed her lips and nodded once, then she was gone.

 

Hours passed. The battle for Fort Neugrad could have been over in minutes, but he wouldn't know until the Stormcloaks returned in several hours. Boredom was his new enemy. One that he had no defense against.

He said a prayer or two for his fellows. He wasn't sure if his words were heard, or if they were ever heard when he prayed, but it was worth it all the same. He hummed music to himself. He tried to remember songs of Elsweyr from his youth.

Night time again, and he heard men march back into camp. Fewer than had left, of course, because they kept a force at the fort, but the footfalls were too thin and too few.

Edla came in again, haggard and weary-looking. "We took the fort," she said, "but we lost a lot of Stormcloaks."

A weight settled over Kari's heart, one he knew all too well.

"They killed Thora. Arrow through the throat."

Silence. "Well. She's in Sovngarde now."

Edla's mouth turned downwards. "Yes" was all she could say. She left. The tent was empty again. Kari knew Birgit was tending to the soldiers, if she was still alive.

He hadn't known much about Thora. He didn't know where she had come from. He didn't know what little things annoyed her. He didn't know what she was proud of or what she was looking forward to. But he did know her; he knew her core. He'd fought at her side. He'd seen who she was when she had to fight and kill, when any self-conscious sense of who she was disappeared. In battle, everything fell away except for the raw, vibrating nerve of true being. There were no masks and no curtains. No one could hide from their comrades. He'd seen Thora's core. He knew how unique she was, how unique they all were. She would be missed.

His thoughts twisted in his head like columns of smoke. They turned to memories of Elsweyr and his old brothers-in-arms. He remembered the first time he'd felt that bone-deep pain of losing a friend in battle. Not just a friend; Dro'Zhid was a teacher and a leader, and the best warrior that Kari - Ja’Kash, as he was known as a young man - had heard of in the northern wastes. He taught the kits how to fight, and more important, how to keep from fighting. On a hunt he always brought back the biggest prize. He was like a father to the entire clan. Even Clan Mother Azadha asked him to advise her on certain matters. Dro’Zhid had been around for as long as Ja’Kash could remember. He was a pillar of their whole world.

So when Dro’Zhid was ambushed and killed by their longtime enemies, Shir Jiira-khaj, the ‘Clan of the Cool Desert’, Ja’Kash felt the emptiness at his side and in his heart, like a piece of his spirit had been cut out and thrown to the desert sands, never to be found again. Ja’Kash had seen the spear driven into Dro’Zhid’s chest, had seen him fall to the ground, had seen his lifeblood seep into the dirt. It was then that he really learned that no one was invincible. Not even the greatest of men.

 

Occasionally the ache in his chest had faded. It never shrank, and it never went away. It was in times like this, when he learned that Thora had been killed, that the ache grew.

 

He had started to count the threads in his blanket when two sets of footsteps crunched outside. A bear head appeared in the opening; Galmar stepped in, followed by burnished golden hair upon broad shoulders. Ulfric.

"What are you doing here?" Kari blurted.

Ulfric raised an eyebrow. "We have Fort Neugrad, if you haven't heard. What happened to you?"

"I met some old friends."

"He's in no condition to come with us tomorrow," Galmar said at Ulfric's shoulder.

Ulfric's eyes moved down Kari's battered body, his face stony and unmoving. "How inconvenient," he said. He turned and left. Galmar shrugged at Kari and followed him out.

Kari didn't know what he had been expecting, but that wasn't it.

 

 


	7. The Bear of Markarth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still battered and bruised, Kari joins Ulfric in claiming Markarth for the Stormcloaks - then discovers he has a problem with Ulfric's methods. Once back in Windhelm, he confronts him about it...

He'd counted 136 threads in his blanket when the flap opened again and Ulfric came in for the second time. He stepped slowly towards the cot and pulled up a folding stool alongside. He sat down, leaned on his knees, and said nothing. Kari remained silent, watching his stoic expression, letting him do...whatever he was doing.

"Are you badly injured?" Ulfric said finally, coming out of his musing as if he was making small talk.

"I'll be alright. I'll need some help from a healer if I'm to do anything in the next week, but I'll be alright."

"What happened to you?"

“As I said. I met some old friends.”  
  
“Which friends were these?”

“The Silver-Bloods.”  
  
Ulfric looked at the ground and didn’t seem able to meet Kari’s eyes.  
  
“A few years ago, I robbed the silver from one of their shipments. I got away, but they remembered my face.”

“I'll send Birgit in if she's not too tired,” Ulfric said. “She is stronger than she knows.” His eyebrows knitted together. "In Windhelm you spoke of losing sight of what we were fighting for. Of losing ourselves in the fight." He levelled his gaze at Kari. "You were speaking from experience."

Kari took a deep breath, held it, then let it out. His mind was calmed, but his heart was still pounding.

"Yes. I was. It was in Elsweyr. Shall I tell you?"

Ulfric’s head dipped once.

“Well. I was known as Ja'Kash then. I was young, but old enough to hunt with the other men. Our clan had been attacked by our neighbours time and time again. Since forever. We were a peaceful clan. We preferred to keep to ourselves and nurse our wounds silently. Our enemy stole from us, kidnapped our kits once or twice. Sometimes they killed us. Never enough to stir us from our peace-nap. Of course the families of the dead were angry. But the rest of us stopped them from taking revenge. Start this now and it will never end, we said.

“One day, I was out with our best warriors on a hunt. Dro’Zhid led the party. He was the best of us. He was like a Jarl in our clan. A great man. On that hunt we were ambushed. Dro’Zhid was pierced by a spear and killed on the spot. The others were shot and stabbed. We killed some of them in return and the rest of them ran away. I alone was able to make it back to our camp. I dragged my brother back with me. When I got there he was dead. We had to send scouts out later for Dro’Zhid’s body and the others. It was the darkest day for my clan.

“We were filled with anger. Dro’Zhid was a father to many of us. Even our Clan Mother had vengeance on her mind, wise though she was. We became warlike. I became chieftain, because I fought well and with hatred. Ja'Kash became Ri'Kash, a leader, no longer a young inexperienced man. We asked other clans to join us, those who had also been terrorised by our enemy. In this alliance we became powerful, truly a force to reckon with. We were fed by our anger and our pain. We needed to become greater, more powerful, so that we could crush our enemy. We needed to prepare ourselves. There were many things we didn’t have: weapons, food, clothes, tools. We began to raid other clans for their weapons and supplies. Then, we started killing those of the other clans, because we could, and because we could take everything instead of just a little. We felt powerful and killing fed our power. Of course, we were strong enough to go against our enemy by then. But destruction was the only thing on our minds. Hatred was the only thing on my mind. I was consumed, totally. My anger became a black hole inside me. Can you see where we went wrong?”

Ulfric nodded slowly.

“We forgot what we had to fight for. We left behind the goodness and destroyed the very thing worth protecting: our own people. We filled ourselves with hate.” His eyes stared blankly into space. “I don’t want the same thing to happen to the Stormcloaks.” He took a deep breath and looked up at Ulfric. “I don’t want the same thing to happen to you.”

The Jarl held his gaze, then looked down at Kari’s hand, which rested at his side. Ulfric moved his hand towards Kari’s. He stopped in midair, apparently thinking better of it, then withdrew like a bear retreating into its cave. He left without a word or a look.

Birgit came in a few minutes later.

 

The next morning the sounds of the camp clanked and rustled their way into his tent. He became restless and listened hard for a sign of what was going on. It was useless. Could he get up? His back and ribs were stiff as wood as he sat up. But he made it. He endeavoured to swing his legs over the side of the cot. Birgit came in suddenly and scowled at him. For a second she looked like a tigress.

"I did say your bones were just barely healed, didn't I?"

Kari opened his mouth to protest, but Galmar and Ulfric marched in right after her.

"We're going into Markarth," Galmar said. "We wanted you with us. To see us take the city. And so the city can see you. Our champion fighter."

"He's in no shape to be fighting," Birgit snapped. A second later she looked up at Galmar sheepishly as she realised who she'd chastised. He seemed not to notice her tone.

"There won't be fighting," Ulfric said. "It's a formality, to set up a new Jarl if Igmund won't support us. They've already lost the Reach."

"You should be still and let yourself mend, Kari. It'll take much longer otherwise."

"No," he replied. "I cannot be still for so long. I'll come with you into Markarth."

Ulfric just nodded and left. Birgit glowered.

"Fine. Let me heal you again so you don't collapse in the middle of the city. That would be bad for appearances."

 

A few hours later and a party of Stormcloaks marched towards Markarth following Ulfric Stormcloak. Clouds hung thick in the sky overhead. They began to spit rain. The wind picked up, brushing through the trees and sending droplets of water into their faces. Kari heard some of the soldiers grumbling - out of Ulfric's earshot, he noted - but for once he welcomed the grey weather. The moisture turned the stones sticking out of the ground a deep, rich grey, and the smell of wet earth clung to the air. No matter that it made his armour cold and his fur damp. He felt alive, and strangely content. He watched Ulfric walk in front of him, every step steady and sure. Kari wasn't used to following. Following Ulfric, however, had begun to feel more and more right.

 

The guards glared daggers at them, but let them in. Civilians stared at them from the walkways and murmured amongst themselves. The quiet and stillness were ghostly. Still the Stormcloaks marched on, silent and tall, up towards Understone Keep.

Kari had expected the people to fight for their city, but they simply looked on. It was a strange silence that followed Ulfric's party: Markarth seemed to hold its breath, and the only thing that moved was the water cascading down from its high rocks. Kari kept his face stony and blank, but he wondered, with an uncomfortable twinge, how Ulfric had known the city would be so submissive.

The doors of the keep swung open, huge and grave. Several guards drew their weapons. Jarl Igmund clanked towards them in full steel armour. Ulfric stood his ground, hand resting on the pommel of his sword, and held his head high, stoic. Regal. The sight inspired warmth in Kari's heart.   
  


If it also inspired warmth in his loins, well, he wasn't going to say anything.  
  


"There is no point in fighting," Ulfric called, waving at Galmar to stand down, who had drawn his weapon. "You have already lost, Igmund."

"I do not see how. You are the one standing in the middle of an Imperial city."

"No, I am not."

Igmund's face narrowed in confusion. A man came into the hall and passed the Stormcloaks to stand next to Igmund. As he passed, Kari recognised him: Thongvor Silver-Blood. Kari felt his blood heat.

"This is our city, Igmund,” Thongvor spat in his haughty, sharp voice, “How did you forget that? We own everything and everyone here. This is Stormcloak territory now.” He leant in to Igmund’s face. “And I am Jarl."

Kari sucked in air through his teeth and glowered at Ulfric, who didn't look at him. He'd planned this, hadn't he? Kari growled, and Thongvor turned around at the sound. When he set eyes on the Khajiit his face turned from smug to venomous. Thongvor hissed. "You're supposed to be dead!"

"He is one of mine," Ulfric said, his voice cutting through the air. Thongvor stilled, but still sneered at Kari. "Do not go near him again," he commanded.

The Silver-Blood turned up his nose and spun on his heel. With a wave of his hand, men came out from the shadows and restrained Igmund and his men.

"This is not the last of it, Ulfric!” he shouted. The panicked notes of his voice rebounded inside the mountain hall. “We will take back Markarth!"

"I doubt it."

 

The journey back to Windhelm was fraught with tension and restrained anger. Kari was in the small group of Stormcloaks escorting Ulfric back to Windhelm - small so as not to attract attention - and he had been given a horse since he was still on the mend. The weather had improved, and sunlight spread warm over the heaths, but Kari was too deeply in his ill-humour to let it cheer him. At every rest he bit his tongue, determined not to criticise Ulfric in front of his men. He wouldn't undermine him so severely. He would wait until they had some privacy.

 

All of them had begun to relax once they had come out of the rocky, treacherous terrain of the Reach and the territory of the Forsworn. The steady foot- and hoofsteps lulled them into meditative thoughts, broken every now and then by distant sabrecat roars or whipping winds. The road led slightly downwards, and they followed it to walk between two raised sections of land. Two rock faces edged the road, and in between the rises the road became the bottom of a miniature ravine. A breeze picked up for a second and familiar scents roused Kari from his angry trance; his ears laid back and he bared his teeth. Two bandits in leather and fur armour leapt in front of the Stormcloak party. Kari and Ulfric both turned to look back; there were three more bandits behind them. The Stormcloaks had drawn their weapons, but there were only three of them, plus Kari and Ulfric, and they looked up to see two more aiming arrows down from either rock face.

Kari jumped from his horse, staggering a little as his muscles cramped up.

“Well, what have we here?” the bandit nearest him said. He was an Orc with long, whip-like dreadlocks and an intimidating scowl. “An unexpected face. Look! It’s our Ripper!” A howl of laughter and bloodlust rose up from the bandits behind them. “I don’t believe it! I thought the Imperials executed you!”

Ulfric looked at Kari with barely-hidden confusion and stared at him hard, trying to figure out what Kari was planning. All Kari did was drum his fingers in the air at his side and extend his claws.

“I did not live so long to be killed by mere Imperials,” Kari retorted. “I must thank you for leaving me for dead. There’s nothing quite like a change in career.”

The Orc whistled and made a face at the Bosmer as his side. “He made a terrible bandit near the end. Got too nice.” His face screwed up and he took on an exaggerated Khajiiti accent. ” ‘We shouldn’t kill the travelers!’ Useless.”

As the Orc had his head turned and his neck exposed, Kari struck. His claws dug deep into the throat. Blood sprayed Kari and the shocked Bosmer who had been next to the Orc. He heard the twang of bowstrings and the crash of metal on wooden shields. Ulfric had drawn his axe and blocked a swing from the Bosmer before planting the axe head in his chest. Kari didn’t turn around to see how the men behind him were doing, but leapt up and around the rise of rock to come up behind the archer. His claws raked her spine before she could fire off a second arrow and she fell forwards, tumbling off the rise. The archer on the other hill turned his bow towards Kari; one of the Stormcloaks hacked at the bandit’s legs and managed to cut off part of his foot. He howled in pain and his nocked arrow went flying in a useless direction. A Stormcloak ran him through from behind.

The three bandits who had trapped them from the back were done for. One, decapitated; the others slashed and bleeding to death.

The Stormcloaks had come away mostly unscathed, apart from one woman who had taken an arrow through the shoulder. They examined the wound, but none of them was a healer.

“You’ve come away lucky, I think,” Kari said as she winced. “You don’t seem to be bleeding to death.”

“Tell me that again when we make it to Windhelm.”

“I will.”

They put her atop the horse then, and marched again towards Windhelm, skittish and wary of their surroundings. Kari could feel Ulfric looking at him curiously but ignored his gaze.

 

Kari’s opportunity to speak came in the early hours of the morning when they finally reached Windhelm. The steward and servants had retired and the Stormcloak commanders were in the barracks. Ulfric had started on his way up into the rooms of the palace, but Kari followed quick on his heels.

"You are displeased." Ulfric spun around to face Kari. They stood in the hallway, braziers burning nearby, guards far away.

"You noticed."

"Your glare is tangible."

As if to confirm his point, Kari hard-eyed him head to toe. "You let the Silver-Bloods rule Markarth? Really?"

"They support our cause and they are powerful enough to hold the position. Their control of the silver mines will also be good for Skyrim, now that the Empire is no longer profiting from our land."

"They are greedy and tyrannical."

"I am sorry they nearly killed you. But it was a political decision."

"I stole from them and they got back at me. I understand that. That's not the issue. That family controls the laws of the city; the prison, the taxes, the money. Everyone there is at their mercy. They are not to be trusted."

"Who else, then?"

"Anyone. The Silver-Bloods are dangerous. The city will suffer. Its residents will become rebellious. You will have another uprising on your hands in a few years, Forsworn or not. I know Markarth is...important" - he remembered what he'd heard about the Markarth Incident and how Ulfric had been betrayed and arrested - "but at what cost?"

"There is no one else with the power to rule the city. That's that. It is politics."

Kari fumed. That was an excuse. There were plenty of good men and women capable of acting as Jarl. Ulfric just hadn't looked for them. Silver-Bloods on the high seat were almost as bad as an Imperial-run hold.

They glared at each other there in the hallway, firelight glancing savagely off their eyes. Kari suddenly remembered his size. He was bigger than Ulfric, and stronger, and more skilled. He could easily overpower him and knock down his arrogance if he wanted. He could beat his stubbornness out of him. But he didn't want to, and then and there he chose not to. Ever.

"You are arrogant," Kari breathed.

"Call it what you will. It has gotten me this far and it will get us further."

"Shrewd. Stubborn."

Ulfric raised an eyebrow. Kari leaned in and put his hands against the wall on either side of the Jarl.

"Proud."

Ulfric raised his arms instinctively. Kari seized them and pinned his hands to the wall. He looked down and saw fear flash over his Jarl's face.

He's afraid of me, Kari thought. How can he be afraid of me?

"I will never hurt you, Ulfric."

Grey-green eyes looked steadily into his. "Forgive me if I find it hard to trust you."

"I have never lied. To you."

"No, you have done nothing." He shifted under Kari's grasp. "It is a long string of betrayals that is to blame."

They stood face to face, close enough that he could feel Ulfric's breaths on his whiskers. He let Ulfric's arms free and leaned in close. Ulfric didn't move. Kari's finger traced over the scar that ran down Ulfric's cheek. Then he kissed him, long and gentle - Ulfric didn't return it, but he didn't push him away, either.

"You have nothing to fear from me," Kari whispered.

Ulfric's eyes were on his face dark and half-lidded. His gaze moved from his eyes to his mouth and he seemed to be deciding something. His lips were ever so slightly apart. Their bow-curve twisted something deep in Kari's gut. Then Ulfric’s mouth closed and his eyes opened as he collected himself. He placed a hand defensively on Kari's chest and stepped away from him.

"You are a _cat_ ," he said, and strode down the hallway.

"So glad you finally noticed," Kari spat at the empty hall. He was going to get hung up on that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh, Ulfric.  
> I know, in-game there isn't a Battle for Markarth...but I felt that was too monotonous, and also Ulfric would probably get bored as hell waiting around in Windhelm all the time. There WAS going to be a Battle for Markarth, but it got taken out of the game. This is my version.


	8. The Grey Quarter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kari takes a break from thinking about the political situation in Markarth and ventures into the Grey Quarter with Ralof. Unfortunately, that, too, unsettles him, and he gives Ulfric unwelcome advice.

Sunlight made its way in through Kari's window. The narrow glass pane had fogged up where the warmth of his breath met the bitter cold of winter. He looked up at the hewn stone ceiling and felt the cool air on his exposed skin. Fur could only do so much against the Skyrim cold. He considered going down into the barracks and scrounging some bread and cheese for breakfast, then decided hunkering down under the furs was the better option. Not for the first time, he imagined he was in a yurt in Elsweyr in the middle of a desert forest. Warmth and sunlight. He sighed. His breath fogged in front of his face.

The political situation with Markarth still made his skin crawl. It was true: there was no love lost between him and the Silver-Bloods, but quite apart from any personal feelings, Kari felt they were the worst people for the city. Cruel. Greedy. Ulfric wanted to keep the silver stores in Skyrim, of course, and he was right that the Silver-Bloods had the power to keep Markarth under Stormcloak control, but the whole situation stank. He wondered if Ulfric planned to let the Silver-Bloods rule Markarth after Skyrim ousted the Empire. Assuming Ulfric would have the authority. Assuming he would become High King. He wondered how he felt about the Jarl coming into so much power. Ulfric would be able to handle it, certainly. But maybe it would go to his head.

There was nothing to be done about Markarth. They had to focus their energies on the next hold, whatever it was going to be. But if they weren’t careful about stabilising the holds they had taken, the Skyrim they created would be weaker than before. It was a danger Kari had foreseen when he had walked into the Palace of the Kings for the first time. He had deemed Skyrim’s freedom a weightier matter, then. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

Markarth continued to eat at him, and it was a long time that he stared up at the ceiling before he realised exactly why. The Stormcloak rebellion had started with honourable intentions. Soldiers had returned home after fighting for an Empire that had signed away their religious freedom. The enemy had forced them into a treaty that allowed the Thalmor to roam untouched all over the Imperial provinces, spitting in the faces of the soldiers who had fought so hard against them. The Empire wasn’t protecting them, then. It cared about controlling its provinces; it didn’t care about the provinces themselves. Kari knew this. The Empire left when things became too hard for them to stay in control. It had happened in Valenwood and Hammerfell. It had happened in Elsweyr. It would happen in Skyrim. The only difference was that Skyrim would be ready to rule itself instead of bowing to another foreign ruler. And if another war started between the Empire and the Dominion, Skyrim would not bleed for it as a child-state. The Stormcloaks wanted Skyrim to be independent at last. They wanted to stop giving to a crumbling entity that couldn’t give to them. They were honourable intentions. Honest ideals. Pure motives, all of them. Ulfric’s actions had been born out of love and a feeling of betrayal. He acted for the good of Skyrim.

And so the situation with the Silver-Bloods bothered Kari. Was it possible for a man to be both honest and politically cunning? It seemed Ulfric was both.

He sighed again and tried to push the matter aside. His wounds had faded now, thanks to Birgit’s hands, and he could feel only the tenderness of his muscles and ribs. He looked down at himself and found some bruises he hadn’t known were there. The Silver-Bloods had done a thorough job. He was just glad they’d left his hands intact.

He pulled on several layers of clothes - underclothes, tunic, hide breeches, over-tunic, fur cloak - and made his way down the lonely steps of the palace into the barracks. With a nod he greeted the few soldiers who were up this early. In the mess hall he found scant food, but enough to sate his hunger. He stared into a goblet of water for long minutes before anyone else came into the room.

Ralof sat down across the table from him, his usually cheery face bleary and downtrodden.

“Good morning,” Kari grumbled vacantly. Ralof nodded and bit into an apple. “Did you arrive last night?”

“This morning,” he replied around a crunching bite, “we were still cleaning up last night. You know.”

Burying the dead and dividing up their possessions, he meant.

“You escorted Ulfric back here?”

Kari nodded.

“A privilege.”

“Is it?”

Ralof shrugged. “He seems to like you.”

“Does he?”

“Yes.” He paused and looked thoughtful. “I suppose it’s because you kill a lot of Imperials.”

“I suppose I do.” Kari leaned his elbows on the table. “They probably hate me.”

“That’s how it goes.” He took another bite. “They hate us because we kill them. We hate them because they kill us.”  
  
“Unnecessary, really.”

“I don’t know.”

“They’re our people.”

“Sometimes brothers must wage war.”

Kari barked a bitter laugh. “I can’t believe I’m tired of fighting. I’m a warrior.”  
  
“I can’t blame you.”

For a few minutes they sat in silence. Ralof finished his apple and started in on a chunk of bread.

“I wish I had some moon sugar,” Kari said wistfully.

“Ha! Well, I don’t know where to find any of that, but we can take a walk and find something else.”

 

They left the palace bundled up against the blanket of cold that had settled over Windhelm. Cramped, little-used alleys led to the tidy quarter where the richer inhabitants lived. Their houses loomed tall and silent over the streets. They had stood there since the founding of the city and would outlive more generations of men than could be counted. Cold stone, forlorn windows; but the people inhabiting the streets were lively and went about their daily lives oblivious to the march of time.

They came into the Stone Quarter and walked past the market stalls. A few wayward stares followed Kari as they passed. They were almost out of the marketplace when Kari saw a vendor selling breads and sweetrolls. He nearly choked Ralof as he grabbed him by the cloak.

"I may not have moon sugar, but I can still satisfy my sweet tooth," Kari said, digging septims from his pockets. They bit into sweetrolls as they made their way into the Grey Quarter. Kari tossed a coin to a beggar as they descended the steps into the dilapidated neighbourhood.

The first thing he noticed was the paving being eaten away by grime and waste. The stench offended his sensitive nose. He'd heard that the Dunmer were restricted to this part of the city, but he hadn't actually seen it before now. The next thing he noticed was the Nord standing under tattered Dunmeri banners, spouting venemous nonsense.

"We don't want your kind here, dark elves! This place reeks of your grey-skinned filth!"

Kari clenched his jaw and felt his blood boil. The Dunmer walking by put their heads down and ignored the Nord shouting in their faces; others avoided him altogether, turning and walking the other way down the street.

"Hey!" Kari shouted. The man turned to look at him, his eyebrows raised and mouth comically agape, like a grinning dog. "What's your name?"

"Rolff Stone-Fist. What's it to you, cat?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Kari saw Ralof back away, either waiting for the fight or deciding to have no part in it. Stone-Fist. A relative of Galmar's? How unfortunate.

In no time Kari had stepped up to Rolff and grappled him, one hand on his throat and the other gripping his shirt. "You shouldn't be harassing these people with your bile, Stone-Fist."

"I'll let these scum know what I think if them if I want to. This is a Nord city!"

"Your hateful words reflect on you, not on the Dunmer of whom you speak." His fist collided with the man's face, and he would have fallen from the impact had Kari not had him by the shirt. Kari shoved him against the freezing stone wall and snarled, baring long, sharp incisors.

"I'll rip out your throat with my teeth if you come down here again." The threat came calm and quiet, so quiet that Rolff had to still and strain to hear it. Kari leaned in close. "Understand?"

Rolff nodded. Kari threw him aside and glared at him as he ran back up to the main quarter.

"You'll be answering for that later, I expect," Ralof said.

"I don't care if he runs and tells Galmar. I don't have time for people like that."

A wide-eyed Dunmer man approached Kari with something like reverence.

"Can I shake your hand?" he asked. Kari assented awkwardly. "Name's Malthyr. I work at the cornerclub. Thanks for dealing with Rolff."

"Kari. Does he do that a lot?"

"Every night, and sometimes during the day. Come inside, it's warmer in the cornerclub."

The building itself was Nord, but as soon as they went inside it breathed the distinct atmosphere of a dark, earthy Dunmeri house, with candles and warm-coloured tapestries and the smell of mazte. The elves inside watched Ralof stealthily, wondering what a Nord was doing in their neighbourhood. Malthyr sat them in a corner and brought them water and bread.

"Been in Windhelm long?" he asked, pouring from a jug into stout clay cups.

"No," Kari said truthfully. "I have been in Skyrim for years, but never Windhelm."

"Why would a Khajiit such as yourself want to come here? Are you as unwelcome as we are?"

"I came to join the Stormcloaks."

"Ah." They each sipped their water in the awkward silence that followed. "I'm surprised they took you. Nords are distrusting of foreigners."

"Yes. But they need the support." Kari was aware of Ralof sitting awkwardly next to him, as invisible as if he weren't there. He was on the edge of his seat with his arms close by his side. "I'm sorry you've all been so mistreated," the Nord said.

"I thank you for saying so, but it doesn't help us much, I'm afraid. Keeping us confined to this quarter is Ulfric's way of telling us we're not wanted."

"You are not allowed to live anywhere else in the city?" Kari asked.

"No. We're stuck down here. All the filth from the upper quarters runs downhill, as they say. You've seen it. The buildings are falling apart."

"Have you asked him to come down here and see it all?"

"Ambarys has tried - he owns this cornerclub, I just work for him - but Ulfric won't come down here. I tell you, he hates the elves. He's the worst of them."

Kari felt Ralof's tension and knew he was trying to keep his temper. Kari felt the same. But it was true that the Dunmer were living in squalor. He didn't know what he could really do about it, apart from infuriating Ulfric by mentioning it. He made a mental note to piss him off the next time he saw him.

"I don't think he hates Dunmer," he said slowly. "I think the Nords just don't trust you. It would change if they understood your ways."

"Ignorance, hatred. The result is the same. What, do you think he'd change his mind if we joined his rebellion?"

Kari shrugged.

"It's not our fight. It's not even our province."

"You live here."

"Yes, well, I might have moved on if I knew what this city would be like."

"Maybe he will come and see what it's like down here."

Malthyr scoffed. "Good luck with that."

They stayed as long as was polite. On their way through the Grey Quarter they ran into several beggars and Ralof narrowly avoided stepping in a deep puddle of anonymous putrifying liquid.

"I'm not sure what could be done about this quarter," Ralof said, hopping over the puddle. "They don't seem to want any contact with Nords."

"They would if the Nords were willing to listen to them. It's not a one-sided problem."

"Are you going to talk to Ulfric?"

"Yes. I want to know what he truly thinks."

Ralof looked at his feet as they came back up to the higher quarters.

 

No sooner had they returned to the barracks mess than Yrsarald popped his head in and eyeballed Kari.

"Ulfric wants to see you," he said. Ralof raised an eyebrow.

Kari sighed quietly. He had already made himself comfortable in front of the fire. “What for?”

"He didn't say. For a soldier, you're terrible at taking orders."

"I follow the orders that make sense to me."

"As I said. You're terrible at it. Go on. He's in the war room."

Kari stuck his hands almost in the fire to warm them up before trudging out of the barracks and through the main hall to the war room. Ulfric was leaning over the table and glaring at the map of Skyrim. If Kari looked closely, he could see the Jarl’s breath in a faint fog. Bloody Skyrim winters.

“Yes?” he asked.

“I’ve decided to promote you.”

“Excuse me?”

He looked up from the map, still glaring. “Don’t think it was an easy decision. But you’ve led warriors before and I need more leaders. You’re a commander now. You’re still under Galmar and Yrsarald, but you’re a commander.”

Kari opened his mouth to snark a reply, but Ulfric beat him to it. “You’re terrible at shutting up and doing what you’re told. You joined us for a reason. I’m trusting you with my orders now. Do you accept this position?”

“Sure.”

The glare became darker.

“Yes, I accept.”

“Very well. Are you busy at the moment?”

Kari narrowed his eyes and pointed his ears to either side. “No?”

“Good. Come. Show me more, Ripper.”

His furs swished as he spun around and strode away in bounds. Kari leapt after him. As they passed through the barracks Kari shrugged his shoulders at Ralof, who gave a silent chuckle.

Cloaks and gloves and shoes were thrown to the floor and they took their places in the centre of the mat. Kari found himself noticing the shape of Ulfric’s fingers and the contour of his arms under his tunic sleeves.

“A man comes at you in plate armour. He has a two-handed sword. What do you do?”

“Wait for him to swing. Either duck or leap back, depending on where he aims.” Kari picked up a wooden training claymore as Ulfric continued. “After he’s swung past, get in close so he can’t swing again, and strike up under his jaw to bring him down.”

Kari swung the sword at Ulfric’s shoulder, hard and fast enough to make him react instinctively; Ulfric leapt back in time, and when Kari finished the swing he jumped back in, grabbing Kari’s wrist with one hand and bringing his other up under his chin. He stopped just before hitting him.

“Good. If you’d followed through, I’d be on the ground.” They stepped apart. “A man comes at you in leather armour with a dagger in each hand. He keeps them low and thrusts out at your stomach. What do you do?”

“Grab the outreached hand and pull him in, kneeing him in the stomach and twisting his wrist at the same time so he drops the dagger. When he doubles over, twist his neck.”  
“What about his other hand? He has another dagger.”

Ulfric hesitated for one second. Kari threw one fist into his stomach. He caught it, and pulled Kari in, but Kari’s other hand had swung around to hit the back of Ulfric’s neck. They were standing chest-to-chest, and neither let go.

“You’d have a blade through your neck,” said Kari, the growl of his voice low and soft. A sly smile spread on his face and he felt Ulfric begin to squirm. Kari jolted suddenly, pulling his arms tighter around his student, and Ulfric flinched. Was that enough teasing? He let go and they stepped apart.

“We’ll come back to that. Let me show you the motion for dislocating an arm.”

As he demonstrated on Ulfric he got a little closer than necessary and more than once he could feel Ulfric’s breath. Ulfric said nothing, just watched and nodded and memorised.

“Now try it on me. Without actually doing it.”

He pushed Kari to the limit of his mobility, but not beyond, although Kari felt a twinge when his arm would go no further. The feeling made him smile. He stopped the laugh that grew in his belly.

“Good. Do it on the dummy. Have no mercy. Combine other attacks as well.”

Kari stood by. He walked around Ulfric, watching his movements, correcting him when necessary. He listened to the sound of his steps and the breaths punching out of his lungs as he struck.

“Have you been to the Grey Quarter?”

Ulfric bared his teeth as he threw an elbow into the dummy’s chest. “There is no need.”

“The Dunmer live overcrowded in dilapidation and the guards turn a blind eye to unrest there.”

Ulfric stopped and glared at Kari, who just nodded and gestured for him to continue his strikes.

“In fact, everyone seems to turn a blind eye.”

“They will never stop complaining about their plight. They wish they were in Morrowind.” The strikes slowed as he spoke. “They will never appreciate being here.”

“If they were given a chance, they might.”

“Am I to give them handouts? While they sit and grovel and do nothing for Skyrim? They do not pay taxes and they aren’t even under my rule. The law for the refugees of the Red Year decrees it.”

“Then that law clearly needs to be changed. I’m not suggesting you give them handouts. They are not just refugees anymore, they are part of the city. You need to work together. You cannot expect them to want to help Skyrim - or Windhelm, for that matter - while they are so unwelcome here. Someone has to make the first step. Someone has to extend a hand. The Stormcloaks here will not do it. The Dunmer are too standoffish and proud to say anything. You have to be the one to open a dialogue.”

Ulfric stood straight. His thick brows were knitted together and his mouth turned down at the corners. "You have no place telling me what I should and shouldn't do."

"And yet I will tell you anyway, because you need to hear it."

The dummy teetered on its base as he threw his fist into it. Kari wasn’t sure how far he should push it, how far was too far. Maybe he would find out.

“You seem to ignore the problems that don’t affect Nords.”

“We don’t like outsiders.”

“And I can understand that. You don’t know who to trust. Except that these people live in your city. They’re not strangers. And you have a responsibility to your city.”

Ulfric grumbled, but if they were words, Kari couldn’t hear them.

“I have come across far too many Nords - and Stormcloaks - who believe that ‘Skyrim for the Nords’ means ‘only for the Nords’.”

“Skyrim is the homeland of the Nords.”

“Yes, it is. But other people live here, too. ‘Skyrim for those who would die for it’ is a better warcry.” Kari sneered. “Longer, but more accurate. It is a Nord belief that those who prove themselves deserve a place in the hall, correct?”

Ulfric’s lip curled and he turned his head. His shoulders were tight and his fists clenched.

“I think I am making sense. If you ignore a whole part of your city, you are only hurting the city. I am not asking that you help them and let them sit by. Both sides need to work together.” Ulfric was silent. “I won’t tell you what to do. You are Jarl; you know better than I how to rule.”

Kari watched him heave a heavy breath. He wasn’t going to get any further, and he decided he’d said enough anyway.

“Good work today,” he said before he picked up his things and left.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this got political quickly. Um...I don't have a particular political standing, but I imagine this is how Kari and Ulfric would think about the refugee situation.
> 
> Do I sense sexytiems next chapter? Of course I do. I'm the writer.


	9. Not Furry Everywhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ulfric decides he's into this cat after all.

The chair in the corner of Kari’s room was hard, but comfortable. It was in an ideal position to catch the light of the dying fire across the room, and he flipped the pages of Children of the Sky contentedly, contemplating the Nords and their strange, deep relationship with the wind and the land. The book had been written ages before, and spoke of ancient Nords and their thu’um, but in it Kari recognised the Nords he knew and saw every day. He had become used to their ways by now, but sometimes, like when he read them described as “powerful and elemental”, they became new again in his eyes; strange and tall and proud. Cold, and alien. He sat in the growing darkness with this book in his lap and began to float away into mountain peaks and snow drifts.

 

A knock came at the door. Kari’s eyes snapped up to look. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Visitors? Friends? He had none.

When he didn’t say anything, it opened, and Ulfric stepped slowly inside. Kari stood up. For a few seconds they simply gawked at each other; then Ulfric closed the distance. His eyes roamed Kari's face uncertainly.

“You arrogant, insubordinate fetcher,” he growled.

Then, suddenly, as quickly as though it had never happened, he had leaned in and pressed his mouth to Kari's, firm and unapologetic. Something twisted in Kari’s stomach. He opened his lips just enough to send a signal; then their tongues snuck out to meet each other. Kari felt Ulfric's tongue pull back instinctively as it ran over his incisors. Kari's arms, which had wound their way around Ulfric's middle, pressed him in closer. A sharp breath came from Ulfric's throat. His hand squeezed Kari's bicep, the other hand wandering up towards his pointed ears. Ulfric leaned away and looked up at them in fascination. His fingers traced their edges delicately and came down to the soft, downy fur where ears met skull. Kari felt a soft growl escape his mouth. Ulfric’s fingers stroked that most sensitive part and the corners of his mouth curled upwards almost imperceptibly.

"Your ears are furry," he said. Kari's head had fallen back, exposing his neck.

"You are a genius," he breathed, but his sarcasm was lost in his lust-tones.

Ulfric's teeth ran along Kari's throat, just barely touching his skin. Kari could feel him grin.

"Is your dick furry too?"

Kari laughed low and deep. "Do you want to find out?"

Ulfric pressed another kiss into his mouth before hurling him against the wall. Kari had been hard before, but when he hit the wall and looked into Ulfric’s fiery eyes he swelled against his trousers. A hand pressed against his chest. The other loosened Kari's trousers down over his hips.

When Ulfric's hand ran down his dick he arched against the cold, hard wall. His hands were rough, but not uncomfortable, and Kari quickly grew used to the fingers tracing around his head. Ulfric's hand wrapped around and pulled up and down along the length, the bumps of his fingers rolling just over the head and back down again.

"I may be a cat," Kari said between shuddering breaths, "but you still want me." He looked down at Ulfric through lidded eyes.

"Shut up." The hand that had been on Kari's chest wrapped partway around Kari's throat. He knew Ulfric could feel the aroused growl vibrating from his chest and he began to laugh. A twist of Ulfric's working hand cut his laugh short and he panted. The strokes came steady. He felt himself growing. His eyesight grew dark and a tension built deep in his groin. Ulfric's mouth was at his throat again. A few more pulls and Kari came - his hands pounded against the wall and he snarled with all the air in his lungs. Ulfric's free hand came to rest on Kari's cheek. His other hand cupped Kari's balls for a second before he removed it from his trousers.

"Alright?" the Jarl asked, and for once he was honestly asking. Vulnerability had edged its way into his expression.

"Not bad at all." Kari kicked off his trousers completely and laid a hand between Ulfric’s thighs. He pushed him towards the bed and climbed on top of him, legs on either side, his parts swinging above Ulfric’s hips. Kari’s hands undid the ties on his breeches, and he spat into his palm before making his way downwards. Ulfric just looked up at him curiously, cheeks flushed. He groaned and his breaths caught as Kari found a rhythm with his hand. Then, one particular stroke had Ulfric grabbing at Kari’s shoulders and groaning, low and guttural. Kari nuzzled his jaw, whiskers twining themselves in the hairs of Ulfric’s beard. Faster, slower, inexorable pulls at his cock, and he was gasping, straining against Kari, hot breaths at his ear. Kari felt him unwinding. Ulfric’s hips tilted, and he spilled over Kari’s fingers with a choked howl. A steady hand led him through the aftershocks. His eyes were closed and his face was blissful - Kari’s stomach dropped as the thought crossed his mind that Ulfric was truly beautiful. There was no pretense or stress or pain in that face. There was just Ulfric.

Kari moved down the bed and eyed the pearly fluid all over his hand and Ulfric’s cock. Inexplicably he felt the urge to taste him. He took him in his mouth, careful to not let his teeth touch the skin, and sucked the last few spurts from his head. Ulfric groaned at the roughness of Kari's tongue. Kari would remember that taste as long as he lived. His lip curled slightly with faint pride. It was the taste of Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, leader of the rebellion. The man he'd just made come.

He leaned back up on his arms, propped up over Ulfric's chest. Ulfric's face had hardened again and he tried to get up. Kari pushed him back down onto the bed with one hand.

"You don't have to leave." He leaned down and kissed him chastely. When he pulled away to look at him again, it was like looking at another man entirely. Where his face had been unreadable, now it had been cracked open, and fear and vulnerability were written there. His eyebrows were knitted together ever so slightly. Ulfric reached up with both hands and pulled Kari to him in a desperate kiss. What had he touched in this man to make him open up? What had he done?

Ulfric stilled. Kari rolled onto his side with one leg hooked around Ulfric’s and propped himself up on an elbow.

“Is that...are you purring?” Ulfric asked after a few moments.

“Get used to it.”

"No, it's fine."

"You're not as much of a fetcher as everyone thinks."

"Really."

"I'd heard you were a barbarian, grabbing for power."

"Am I not?"

"No." Kari's hand wandered across Ulfric's middle. He imagined the body under all that clothing. "You're a soldier trying to get back his homeland. Power is just a tool to you."

"So many do not understand." He turned to face Kari but stared into blank space. "I have been accused of throwing away the lives of my followers. It is nonsense. I have fought alongside many of them. They are all the sons and daughters of Skyrim. And I regret every life lost in this war."

Kari swallowed. "I know."

"But it must be fought."

"If you were the only one who thought that, there wouldn't even be a rebellion. Sacrifices must be made."

Ulfric turned his gaze on Kari. "What happened after you became chieftain?"

Kari sighed through his nose and lay on his back. "I made us strong, as you know. I led our clan in raids against other clans. Finally we turned our sights on our longtime enemies. At first we attacked their hunting parties, to thin out their warriors a little. We laid false animal trails and ambushed them. Later we organised a raid on their main encampment. It was night. We came with poison arrows and torches and we set fire to their tents, killing anyone who tried to run away. We killed them all. Those who stayed put - children, mothers, the sick - we burned alive. I can...still smell their burning bodies. This is why my clansmen called me the Tiger of Ra'Vin. My victims called me the Shredder of Skins. I am not proud, Ulfric. I carry these names as reminders. We found their chieftain's yurt and the yurts of his right-hand warriors. They had disappeared. They had escaped. We left the bodies to burn and be eaten by animals.

"We thought little of their escape. We had annihilated our enemy and every chance they had of procreating. We had wiped them from the desert. Victorious, we stopped killing. Of course we didn't see how many enemies we had made where there had previously been allies. Life settled down for us, although we kept our warriors trained, through force of habit. There was a warm night. I remember how the stars looked, and how the moons hung full in the sky. Jone and Jode. They looked on us that night. I wonder if we deserved what we got then.

“Our former allies must have told our enemy where we were. They must have joined with the chieftain and his men, because there were so many of them, and they totally surrounded our camp. First, they snuck into my yurt and woke me up, tying me so I could not fight or speak. They held me and made me watch as they set fire to the camp, as we had done to them. They shot or cut down anyone who tried to run out. They brought the Clan Mother out before me and stabbed her, then set her on fire. She died cursing me. I deserve it.

“It lasted until morning, when the flames finally burned to the ground, nothing left to consume. I saw the bodies of my clan, the mangled, burnt corpses of the warriors I had led. Everyone was dead. My clan was gone.

"I thought they were going to kill me. I hoped they would. Maybe that had been their plan at the beginning, but they decided to let me go. I had nothing and nowhere to go, of course. No one would help me after what I had done. They threw burning brands at me until I ran into the desert. Somehow I made it to Cyrodiil, almost dead.

"I spent ten years as a bandit, killing and taking lawlessly. I had stopped caring. Or maybe I thought I was already lost. Slowly I began to realise I could change, and stop harming people. Which is probably why I was left for dead again. Just after, I was captured by the Imperials and I ended up in a cart with you."

"I remember thinking I had never seen a Khajiit as big as you," Ulfric said, and Kari thought he could hear a smile.

"Like it, do you?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

Kari snickered and rolled off the bed to fetch some rags and the bucket of water from the corner.

"We should clean ourselves up. Can't have the Jarl walking through the palace with Khajiit cum all over him."

Ulfric made a noise somewhere between a snort and a huff, and caught the wet rag that came flying towards him.

"Our next objective is Fort Snowhawk near Morthal," he said as he attempted to wipe his clothes off. "I'm planning on sending you there to lead under Galmar. Any objections?"

Kari shrugged.

"This is me trying to discuss your orders with you."

"Yes, I know. No objections, my Jarl."

"I thought so."

They set their rags aside and righted their clothing. Ulfric laid a hand on Kari’s shoulder as he swooped out the door.

Kari stood there, confused. He knew what his body wanted more of, but he wasn't sure how far his heart was going to go. He hadn't planned on losing it.

 

The next day they were to march for the Stormcloak camp near Morthal. The mist of the morning crept along the ground as they loaded wagons with provisions and checked each soldier's pack. Kari loaded the horses belonging to the commanders, himself now included among their numbers, and was startled by a tap on the shoulder.

When he turned around he saw Ulfric with a bundle in his hands. “Here,” he said gruffly, pressing the bundle into Kari’s chest. “Every commander has one. And there is cold coming.”

It fell unfolded in his hands, revealing wool with thick fur inside. It was a hooded cloak.

“How can you tell?” Kari asked. “About the cold?”

“All Nords have a sense,” he said simply. “Talos guide you.”

Kari watched him stride back into the city, until Galmar nudged him back into activity.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmm...underwhelming? I suppose a bit. But we can't have Ulfric open up too much. He's a grumpy asshole.
> 
> The next chapter(s) will almost certainly be late. Life has gotten extremely busy all of a sudden and I don't have a lot of spare time. But this fanfiction WILL get finished. I swear by Talos.


	10. Frozen Mists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are times when it would be useful to be able to heat oneself up like those Buddhist monks.

The wagons and soldiers made their way over increasingly boggy roads as the air bit harder and harder. A cold wave was coming in, the Nords said. Maybe snow. Winter was the real danger in Skyrim, bears and sabrecats and giants be damned. The winter would kill. Kari hunched his shoulders against the coming cold.

As they went further east the skies grew darker and thicker. Clouds hung above their heads. They came into the camp as night fell, the sky dimming as the sun dipped below the horizon. Hurriedly they set up their tents near the existing fires and unloaded their cargo. Kari set up near Galmar and his right-hand men. All around, soldiers took off their boots and stuck their feet in their fires, or dug into well-deserved dinner, or drank with their fellows. As he meandered around the camp he caught some familiar voices and, ears swivelling, tried to pick out where they were coming from.

“I’m so glad for her.”

Someone seemed to be sniffling.

“It must have been unexpected.”

A fire crackling.

Three soldiers hunched over a firepit with furs piled onto their shoulders. One of them was Edla; the one whose back was to Kari was so huge he could only have been Thorri; and the last one looked like Ralof, although he had a hood pulled far over his face.

“Is it good news or bad?” Kari said, and the figures at the fire turned towards him. Edla’s face turned from wary to cheery. Thorri had already been smiling, and there were trails of water running down his face. They scooted together to make room for Kari.

“My sister has finally gotten married,” Thorri said, grinning and weeping at the same time. He held a well-worn piece of parchment in his hands.

“Good news, then. Congratulations to her.”

“She’s been in love with the boy since she was a child.” He hiccoughed a glad laugh. “I’m so happy!”

It was an incongruous sight. Kari had seen Thorri decapitate men and strew their intestines on the ground in battle-rage. Now the giant was hunched over, grinning and crying for a childhood romance. It was unexpected, to say the least.

“Now she’ll have a family,” Thorri continued, after sniffling through a running nose, “someone to take care of her. If I die…” He exhaled something between a sob and a laugh. “She’ll be alright.”

They stared into the fire and their contentedness was tinged with thoughts of the coming battles. They had just started to eat their venison stew when Galmar tapped Kari on the shoulder and pulled him away.

“Orders, Ripper. Come.”

Kari followed him into his tent grumbling. His stomach growled almost as fiercely as he did when he was in battle.

“We’ve gotten intelligence that an Imperial courier is taking orders to the Legate in Morthal. We need someone to intercept these orders so we can, ah, modify them and deliver them to the Legate.”

“And you’re asking someone who sticks out like a…” He struggled to find a metaphor. “...Like a Khajiit in a snowbank?”

“We can trust you to get the job done.”

“The Legate won’t believe a Khajiit is in the Imperial army in Skyrim. This is too sneaky for me. Do you remember what happened last time I did something sneaky?”

He nodded slowly as if he were some kind of sage. “You got kicked like a dog.”

Kari pursed his lips. “I won’t do it, Galmar.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. You’ll have to find someone else.”

“Alright. Maybe the Dragonborn will do it. Have you seen him around camp?”

He shook his head.

“Fetcher is always disappearing at the worst times." He stared thoughtfully into the candle flame on the table. "My brother Rolff said he was attacked by a wild Khajiit. That wouldn't be you, by any chance?"

"I hurt people who do bad things, when I see them happening."

"Hmm."

"He was shouting insults in the Grey Quarter."

"Hmm."

"Not you, too, Galmar. Don't tell me it's not your problem."

He shrugged. "My brother does stupid things sometimes. I don't trust outsiders any more than the next Nord. But that doesn't mean we have to yell at them, either."

Kari pursed his lips and nodded once under Galmar’s steady gaze.

"Alright.” He dipped his head and looked down. “I won't put you on latrine duty. You’re dismissed. Go eat your stew.”

 

The Dragonborn didn’t appear until the next morning when he was dispatched in a hurry towards Dragon Bridge. The weather had worsened overnight, and the sun’s glow was barely visible through the veil of clouds that had spread themselves across the sky. The Stormcloaks busied themselves with stories and training and anything that helped them keep warm. The wind picked up again. White skies turned to dark grey as the sun set and there was still no sign of the Dragonborn's return.

Kari warmed himself up completely by the fire before he turned in for the night. His tent was made of thick fur hide, with a flap, and he left it open near the fire to catch heat. The Nords seemed to be in their element, if a little chilly, but Kari was cold already, and dreading the weather they all said was coming. Maddeningly, they had never said exactly  what - perhaps they didn't know - but they said it would be cold.

He shut the flap opening and hunkered down into his cot, wearing his underclothes and a long, thick woolen tunic for warmth. He listened to the voices of his comrades just outside his tent. They faded, and eventually the words lost their meaning and they were just lilting tones, and they sounded to Kari's ears like chilled water running over a riverbed. He drifted further off and pulled the cloak Ulfric had given him over his body.

The cold woke him a few times during the night, but the last time, he stayed awake, and saw the light coming in through a thin crack in the tent flap. It must have been morning. With his breath fogging in front of his face he pulled on socks and boots and peeled the flap open. A wall of snow had piled up against the flap. If he'd been standing up, it would have come nearly up to his knees. He shoved a hollow into the snow and crawled out of his tent.

A wall of cold air hit him as soon as he did so and he shivered. The snow that had fallen during the night now covered every tent in the camp, apart from those partly sheltered by a shelf of rock. The fire pit was all but invisible under the white blanket.

Galmar’s voice came across the undisturbed snow, rousing the men. He waded through the snow towards the cluster of tents, saw Kari, and bade him to wake the men. “You’ve got orders,” he called, “Dragonborn came back this morning. We’re making for Fort Snowhawk as soon as the men are ready.”

He roused the camp and they pulled on their gear, shivering every second.

 

The fort was located over the boggy, foggy lands of Hjaalmarch, and no number of socks or amount of hay stuffed into their boots would stop their feet from soaking up water as they marched. Even if they had had cavalry or siege machines, they couldn’t have transported them across the treacherous landscape. They would take the fort by force of sword and spear, as always. But now they were up against the worsening weather as well as the Imperial garrison that awaited them at their objective.

Kari pulled his fur cloak tighter around his neck and trudged on, leading his own column of Stormcloaks after Galmar. Their camp was nearby the fort, near enough to make a surprise attack in good weather, but now with the fallen snow and rising wind it took twice as long.

By the time they were within an arrow-shot of the fort the sun had disappeared completely and the sky had become grey with driving snow and fierce wind. They snuck next to the walls of the fort. Men in the brush fired arrows into the parapet. They hadn’t been seen by the Imperials and so took them by surprise. Imperial arrows whistled through the air and most landed useless in the snow. A few found their marks in Stormcloak shoulders and stomachs. The men already gathered at the foot of the walls followed the stone to the barricaded arch, and hacked away at the wood with axes. But their hands were frozen, and their muscles refused to strike with all their strength.   
  
Kari still stood next to the wall, overseeing the men at the barricade and signing orders to the men in the brush. He directed his archers to aim at the men in the towers. At spitting distance away, a cry went up from the parapet and Kari looked up just in time to see the Imperials tip a cart-full of boulder over the crenellation. Onto the Stormcloaks. Men collapsed, dead on the spot as rocks broke their necks and their skulls. Kari swore and fought his way towards the barricade. He picked up an axe and hacked wildly at the wood - somehow it was sturdier than any other Imperial barricade he’d seen - he heard cries go up from the brush and turned to see his archers being picked off by Imperials who had snuck up from behind.

It didn’t take him long to realise they’d been flanked. He heard Galmar’s bear-shout from the brush, the command to fall back, and he repeated it in a screech to the men who were near enough to hear. Those still alive at the barricade dashed as quickly as they could through the snow towards the brush. The ankle-high slush slowed them down enough for the archers in the towers to pick them off with arrows in their backs. Six men in front of Kari fell face-down in the snow. He himself strove through the mass, praying he wouldn’t be shot.

The arrows stopped coming once he’d reached the brush, but there were the footsoldiers who’d come up from behind to deal with. One man looked at him wide-eyed and swung a sword at him uncertainly; he was more immobilised from the cold than Kari was, and Kari’s claws ripped through his throat with almost no resistance.

He repeated the command to retreat. On either side, his Stormcloaks were supporting the wounded, lifting them with one arm to help them struggle through the snow. Someone grasped at Kari’s ankle. He saw a hand, attached to an arm, attached to - the soldier was hidden under the brush - a young Imperial with rent armour and blood streaming from the gash. He was a boy.

Galmar’s voice came through the wind again and Kari followed, shaking off the boy’s grasp.

Snow was falling now in flurries, twisting and whipping with the wind. The only time Kari had seen a blizzard, he’d had a cave and a warm fire to take refuge in. Flecks of white surged around his face and he almost missed the woman who’d stumbled and half-fallen into the snow. He helped her up and they made their way through the brush towards the rest of the Stormcloak party.

The Stormcloaks stuck together and made for the camp. Their tracks had already disappeared under new snow, and they could only see a stone’s throw in front of them. Wind bit at Kari’s ears and he squinted. His eyes felt like they were freezing in their sockets. Every step was an effort. The men and women around him were struggling through the snow and wind, too, and he realised how difficult it would be to find their camp through the blinding whiteness. He could just see the blue of the Stormcloak uniform in front of him. Presumably someone up front knew where they were going. It felt like the right direction, but white was all around them. Kari realised he should be leading them, but he was as directionless as the next man. Where was Galmar?

The texture underfoot changed from mostly solid to soft and wet. They had moved into bog again. That was a good sign, right? The woman at his side stumbled again - maybe she was hurt - and Kari pulled her up once more. They linked arms and leaned into each other to stay upright.

With his soaked boots, Kari lost the feeling in his feet and ankles. He felt his hands numbing as his body pulled all the warm blood to his core.

It had not taken this long to get to the fort. Had it? He didn’t know how much time had passed. He didn’t know how fast they were moving. White walls all around, and stretching bog underfoot. No sense of direction. And no way to scent their trail, either, because the wind was too fierce.

The soldiers around him began to slow. He kept up his pace, and thanked the fur cloak that wrapped around his shoulders. If they were out here much longer, they would just stop moving. And then they would freeze to death. They had to get to camp, out of the wind and driving snow. The boggy lands offered no shelter, only dangerous footing and freezing water.

There was no chance of getting back to the camp, he slowly realised. The next thing he realised was that he was going to die out here, in the snow. Fort Snowhawk be damned - it was the cold that was going to finally do him in, not any Cyrodiil steel.

He regretted that it wouldn’t be in battle. Ever since he was young, he’d imagined himself dying at the tip of a worthy opponent’s sword, or with an enemy’s claws to his throat. When he’d left Elsweyr and became a bandit, he figured he’d be killed trying to escape capture or prison. Dying from the cold was not honourable like being killed by an enemy was. Or nearly as fast.

Then he realised that he didn’t mind so much, dying while on campaign for the Stormcloaks. It was what he’d signed up for, he supposed: to die in the name of the cause, in the hope that it would be fulfilled. Of course, of course he would die for the cause; he believed fiercely in the freedom of a people, but the only thing his sluggish brain could think of as he stumbled through the snow was Ulfric. He would die for Ulfric. He was going to freeze to death in Ulfric's name, with the memories of Ulfric's smell and Ulfric's hidden softness foremost in his mind.

 

His feet slowed. His limbs became stiff. They were so close to camp; at least, he thought they were. There were still soldiers behind him, weren’t there? He was heading in the right direction, wasn’t he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, cheap cliffhanger!
> 
> This chapter was late! I am sorry! The next one will also be late, count on it. Life is busy. I usually have these things written out a week or two in advance, but this one and the next were giving me problems.


	11. If At First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Separated from the rest of the Stormcloaks, Kari and his small group of soldiers have to choose between their mission and their safety. Ralof runs into an old friend.

He stumbled in one direction and nearly fell. The woman whose arm was linked in his yanked him back upright. Someone was yelling in their direction, he thought, but it was difficult to tell where it was coming from since the wind picked up the words and twisted them around. They plodded on. The voice came again, and someone came towards them through the spinning snow. It looked like Ralof.

He stopped and reached his hand out to Kari. Kari and the woman pulled themselves towards Ralof - his mouth seemed to be moving, but Kari couldn’t make out what he was saying. He could barely even see his face. Ralof’s hand fastened around his arm, seizing his attention. With his other hand he pointed.

Suddenly Kari understood, and struggled in the direction he pointed. The wind seemed to find its way under his armour and through his fur to his chilled skin. His shivered violently, and every step was slower than the last. But he went on where Ralof had pointed, and he came upon someone else standing in the snow, gesturing in the same direction. Snowflakes whipped in front of their faces but they could just make out the chain of Stormcloaks leading towards the camp. Someone must have found it, after all.

 

Warm air across his face. A draft through his whiskers. Sticky skin against damp fur. Crackling, snapping, faint roaring in his ears. A groan escaped his mouth before he even realised he’d tried to move. The sound echoed around him.

“Hey.” It was Ralof’s voice, tired and flat. “You’re alive. We’re alive.”

Kari’s eyes opened and took a few seconds to focus. Light flickered across whatever surface he was looking at. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the face of the woman he’d helped through the snow. She lay against him and he realised they were naked.

“You needed to warm up,” Ralof said simply. Well, he was warm now. He moved each finger and toe and found that they all responded.

“I haven’t lost anything,” Kari growled low.

“Good.”

Their voices echoed still and Kari realised the howling wind was outside. “Where are we?”

“A cave.”

Kari turned a little to look at the woman lying over him. He could only see the blonde hair on top of her head. “I don’t think I know her name."

"Marya. Breton girl. She's one of our mages."

A mage. Good thing she was alive, then. Mages were invaluable, whatever the Nords usually thought of them.

"How did we get here?"

"The cold has stolen your memory, then, eh? We got caught in a blizzard. Eitri found this cave. I don't know where the others are."

"How many are here?"

"Fourteen."

Fourteen. And how many was he supposed to lead? How many had he misled? His many had he gotten killed? If Eitri and Ralof hadn't guided them to safety, they'd all be dead. He didn't even know how many they'd lost, or where the rest of the detachment was. Some leader he was.

"Don't blame yourself for the cold. Even Nords can have a hard time bearing it."

"What, you people can read minds, too?"

Ralof's face screwed up indignantly, then softened when he saw Kari's expression. "The blizzard was not your fault."

"And the attack on the fort? That failed. We were ambushed. Trapped. That part is my fault. I should have seen. I should have waited."

"Galmar didn't wait. You were following his lead."

"I should have told him."

"And then what?" The Nord voice chimed in the cavern like cracking ice. "Sometimes these things go bad. Sometimes men die. Sometimes it cannot be foreseen."

"I know," Kari growled low.

"So? What?"

Kari looked down at Marya. Her face was still but she seemed to be waking up.

"I hope you're not torturing yourself. A commander should focus on his men, not himself."

"I'm not," he growled louder. Marya stirred. "We should attack the fort again."

Ralof's eyes became the size of sweetrolls and his brows knitted together. "Put on some clothes and then I can take you seriously."

 

He pulled on whatever had been mostly dried by the fire. The cloak Ulfric had given him was damp and cold still. He eyed it before settling again in front of the fire alongside Ralof and Marya, who had woken and dressed.

"Attacking again?" Ralof asked. "You're serious?"

"We have a job to do."

"Your brains are addled by the cold."

"Do you want me to...?" Marya gestured vaguely.

"No, stay. I will hide nothing from my men. This concerns you after all." Marya crossed her legs and dipped her head. Kari continued, looking Ralof squarely in the eye. "Yes, I am serious."

The Nord scoffed. "We couldn't take it with a full complement, let alone the fourteen of us there are here."

"If we tried a different tactic."

"What are you thinking?"

"What kind of magic are you best at, Marya?"

She tilted her head away from him. "Why do you ask?"

  
  


They crouched in the brush where they were ambushed by Imperials just a few hours before. The soldiers hiding in the trees had long since returned to the fort, and there were tracks in the snow where they had dragged their dead and wounded indoors after the blizzard. Kari rearranged himself in the remaining snow and misbalanced as his foot twisted on something. He recovered and looked down. A foot poked out of the snow. They missed one.

Only a few archers patrolled the parapet. Their bright red colour a could be seen occasionally, flashing through the crenellations as they passed. Four, Kari counted. It meant they could get in, but it also meant more men for them to fight once they were inside.

He gestured at Marya, who was already in position. She nodded and took the position for casting. A few seconds later she had conjured a storm atronach on top of the parapet. It crackled with electricity; the Imperials turned around and attempted to fire arrows at it. The arrows bounced off the elemental and the men were pummeled by its projectiles.

Marya, Kari, and three other Stormcloaks crept towards the fort. They jumped over the battered barricade and snuck up the stairs to the parapet. Unnoticed, the Stormcloaks each took a guard and undressed them as quickly as possible, taking off their own Stormcloaks garb and switching it for the Imperial leather. Kari knelt over a dead guard and dug into his throat with his claws, bloodying his hands, and spread it over his face and arms. Marya gawked at his efficiency. He simply looked up at her.

"Ready?" he whispered. She nodded. "Alright."

She and another Stormcloak seized him by the arms and tried to drag him along, but the Khajiit's weight could barely be budged. Kari shrugged guiltily.

"Well, make it look good," Marya said. "Um, sir."

"Hold on tight."

They breathed in deep and led Kari towards the fort entry. He growled and pulled against their grips as they pushed the doors open. Imperials sitting at tables in the main hall turned to look at the noise by force of habit. Their eyes grew when they fell upon Kari, who bared his teeth and threw furious glances around the room. The men muttered amongst themselves and gathered around to examine their newest prisoner.

"We found him snooping in the trees. Probably looking for things to steal," sneered the Stormcloak in disguise. Kari glared and yanked at his grip.

"Never seen such a cat," said one Imperial, gawking at him head to toe.

"Are those tattoos?"

"Where?"

"No, they're scars. Khajiiti tribesmen mark themselves. I saw it when I was in Elsweyr."

A voice boomed across the stone and Kari was reminded of Ulfric. "What's going in here?"

The soldiers went silent and cleared the way. A short, balding, fierce-looking Imperial strode through the men. "Who's this?"

"They found him outside the fort, sir."

He scowled at Marya. "Did you find him?"

"Yes, sir," she said curtly.

"You. I haven't seen you here." He scowled harder and his forehead became like the deep furrows of a ploughed field. "We've been stuck here for weeks without reinforcements." He sneered. "And you two couldn't have captured this giant on your own."

His palm fell onto the pommel of his sword. As he opened his mouth to speak, electricity cracked behind him. He fell forwards, and a huge boulder floated where his head had been a moment before.

The soldiers reared in surprise at the atronach that had materialised in their midst. Three of them had Kari's claws in their necks before they could react. The others drew their weapons. The next second, the doors crashed open and the rest of the Stormcloaks rushed in with a warcry.

Metal whistled through the air, along with electricity and chunks of rock. Imperials fell all around the invaders, making a circle of bodies around the room. Kari gestured for several Stormcloaks to search the prison cells and for another group to check the upper rooms. The still-living Imperials in the entry hall dropped their weapons and fell to their knees. Kari searched the commander for a key and ordered his men to take them to the cells. He ran a quick check over the entry hall - one Stormcloak, they'd lost - before following them down into the keep.

The prison dungeon was dank and stuffy, as expected, really. Kari could feel the thickness of the air on his whiskers - the damp, the mould, the smell of the stone. It clogged his nose and his head, and he seemed to walk in a haze.

“Ripper!”

The voice was to his left. He stopped in his tracks and took a step backwards. He blinked and saw Ralof crouching in a narrow passageway. Handing the prison key off to one of the men, he prowled down the hallway after Ralof.

“What is it?”

“Ripper, I can’t take him prisoner.”

Kari was about to ask who he was talking about, then he rounded the smooth stone corner and nearly stepped on the Imperial soldier squatting against the wall.

“Why? He’s surrendered.”

“Taking him prisoner could mean his death.”

“It depends. What is the matter?”

The man looked up at Kari from under thick brows. His skin looked ruddy, as a soldier’s was, and his hair was a rich red. Kari met his eye for a moment, then scrutinised Ralof. “Who is he to you?”

Ralof’s eyebrows were ever so slightly tensed, and his eyes grew larger and somehow more blue as he decided what to tell his commander. “He’s a...he’s a friend.”

Kari’s whiskers flicked upwards. There was something Ralof was avoiding saying. “We all have friends on the other side.”

“Yes. But I grew up with this man. And we were...friends.”

Something flashed in the Nord’s eyes and he seemed smaller. Kari’s lungs pulled in a breath to sigh, but he stopped himself. He could understand friends, if that was what Ralof meant. He could understand very easily.

“So you can’t take him prisoner.”

“Ulfric would have the Imperials put to death.”

He huffed. Was that true? “I don’t know how we’re supposed to hide him. What’s your name?”

“Hadvar,” said the soldier.

“And I don’t think this is what a commander should be doing.”

“I owe him.”

“Do you.”

Ralof pressed his lips together nervously, awaiting a decision. Kari shut his eyes and let out the sigh that had tried to come before. This was against his better judgment.

“Alright. Where does this hallway lead?”

“Latrine,” Hadvar replied.

“You have indoor latrines? That’s disgusting.”

“Doors stop the smell.” He wrinkled his nose. “Mostly.”

“Is there another way out of the fort?”

“There’s an underground tunnel that comes out in the hills.”

“How do you get there from here?”

“It’s through the prison.”

Of course it was.

“Wait here,” Kari hissed before heading back through the hallway. Locks clanked as the soldiers locked up the last of the Imperials.

“Back to the main hall for orders!” barked Kari. “Einar, check on the rations, whatever’s left. Report back to me.”

He watched the blue of their cloaks disappear up the stairways and waited until their steps had faded.

“Ralof!”

The two men crept out from the hallway, glancing around.

“Come on. It’s clear.”

Hadvar strode across the room. Ralof followed behind him, passing Kari, then stopping and swivelling on his heel.

“Ralof, I have to go!” Hadvar said.

“I’m going with him, Ripper.”

“You know that’s desertion.”

“I’m coming back.”

Kari shrugged feebly. “Can’t leave a man alone in the snow.”

Ralof nodded. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

Kari was left standing in the middle of a room, surrounded by silence and Imperial eyes. He looked daggers at them, returning each one of their stares. Some of them looked away, cowed. Others seemed to be looking in wonder.

He turned tail and headed back towards the entry and nearly smashed heads with Einar.

“Einar. What did you find?”

“A couple of days’ worth of supplies for the remaining garrison.”

“Enough for us, then. Come. We have to bury the warrior we lost.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha whoops accidental implied Ralof/Hadvar shipping. Also, I know Fort Snowhawk doesn't have a secret entrance, but I really needed some way to sneak Hadvar out.  
> Yup, this chapter was about a month and a bit late. Unfortunately the forecast for the next few is also pretty sparse looking. NaNoWriMo and uni exams, you know. But I WILL WRITE THIS FIC. RARGH.


	12. Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The losses eat away at Kari as he runs into the caravaners once again.

Kari trudged into Morthal downtrodden and in low spirits. He’d left Fort Snowhawk in the hands of Eitri, who seemed capable enough. Ralof hadn’t returned by the time Kari left, and he half hoped for Ralof’s sake that he had run off with his childhood friend, away from the war. More than likely, he would see Ralof again - the man was a pious Stormcloak, no matter what friends or ‘friends’ he had on the other side.

Kari had decided to come to Morthal with the goal of getting supplies, and sending word to Windhelm. The real reason, he'd realised, was to extract himself from his men. He was finding it hard to look them in the eyes.

More than that, he was finding it hard to live inside his own skull. Why did it bother him so? He'd commanded warriors before. He'd seen them killed, seen his friends killed, seen young men killed before their time. Part of him wanted to hate Ulfric. The other part hated himself.

So he'd put one foot in front of the other until he reached Morthal. Damp, dank, humid, cold. And now dark, that it was evening. Maybe there was some mead waiting for him somewhere.

When the door of the inn opened and closed behind him, he was overwhelmed with familiar faces. They seemed so out of place that it took him a few seconds to register them. Calennius, Osric, Annia, Torek - the other half of the detachment. Galmar wasn't among them.

"Kari!" some of them called. "Ripper!" others said. Most of them crowded around a long table with their heads down over plates of meager food. Kari gravitated towards the fire and peeled off his boots, placing them with the other pairs laid out to dry. So some of them, at least, had survived the blizzard. He placed a hand on the shoulder of a man balanced on a stool near the flames. The blond head turned in alarm.

"Excuse me," Kari said.

"No, excuse me, sir," he replied. After a second look, Kari realised the man - boy, rather - couldn't have been over seventeen years of age. Looking in his eyes Kari felt another pang of guilt. He bent down to speak.

"Did you come here with Galmar?"

"Yes," the boy said. "We couldn't take the fort, so we came here to regroup."

"Where is he?"

"He left to send word to Ulfric."

"Hmm." Kari's eyes unfocused as he stared into the fire.

"Sir?"

"You don't need to call me sir." He clapped the boy's shoulder again and straightened. "I guess I'll have to follow him to Windhelm."

"Sir?"

Kari felt a smile tug his whiskers. "We took Fort Snowhawk after the storm."

The soldier's eyes grew into the size of potatoes.

"The men are there now," he continued. "I just came to send word." The boy still stared up at him and Kari smiled wearily despite himself. "I expect Ulfric will send back orders. What's your name?"

"Olaf."

"Make merry, Olaf."

With that he turned away from the Stormcloaks, boots in hand. He bought a flagon of mead from the bar before heading outside again.

Standing in the middle of town, he turned until he faced the mountains. A sigh escaped his lips and was made frosty by the air. He sipped the mead in his hand. He drew a breath deep into his lungs.

"Ri'Kash!"

He jumped catlike to face the opposite direction. A furry face came down Morthal's main road, waving its hand, its body shining dully in the snowlight. Kari blinked and saw that it was Kharjo walking towards him, bits of the caravan visible just behind him at the town limits.

"Ri'Kash!" he called again. He came close enough to spit and smiled that toothy, sly grin that only Khajiit have. "Why are you without shoes?"

Kari looked down at his feet and saw his furry toes in contrast against the dirty slush.

"The Stormcloaks have made you crazy," he said. "Where are you going?"

"Windhelm," Kari replied.

"Stay a while. We came to do business with the soldiers. We heard they were here. But we did not know about Ice Claws."

"Ice Claws?"

"Yes. Come sit with us."

He helped them make camp on the far side of town, beyond the burnt-out house that Kari had heard the townspeople talk about in hushed voices. Their tents hardly held the heat of their fires, but it was enough to stop them shivering.

"Are you sure you can't just...walk into the inn? It's so much warmer." Kari stuck his hands under his arms and pulled his knees in closer under him. Luckily the cushion was big enough that his feet were completely covered. His boots looked like tiny men hunching pitifully next to the fire.

Ahkari shook her head sagely. "They do not trust us. Especially here. They are suspicious. And they know what we sell." She seemed to point with her eyebrow. Zaynabi sitting next to her shrugged. "It is warm enough," Ahkari finished, and stared into the fire.

"I'm just remembering the blizzard," Kari admitted.

"It snowed us in," Zaynabi said. "White everywhere."

"I was in battle at the time."

There was a silence then, as they waited for him to go on, and he didn't.

“I often wonder about the usefulness of this war,” Kharjo said, drawing out his words, watching Kari’s face carefully.

“I guess you’re lucky we’re not in the inn, after all, Kharjo. If the Stormcloaks heard you…”

“You’re a Stormcloak, Ri’Kash.”

Kari shrugged.

“I am thinking of the greater threat. You know that the Empire left Elsweyr to the Thalmor.”

“Part of the reason why I fight against the Empire.”

“But shouldn’t we be fighting against the Thalmor themselves?”

“Their conflict lies with the Empire, not Skyrim.”

“And what when they defeat the Empire?” Kharjo’s eyes flashed, the first time Kari had ever seen it. “You know they will. The Dragon is weak. We should side with the Empire, and have a hope of defeating the Thalmor. What if the Empire falls without Skyrim, and the Thalmor turn their eye on the Nord land?”

“Then the new Skyrim will defend itself. We will be stronger then.”

Zaynabi shook her head. “Skyrim does not stand a chance against the Thalmor.”

“Doesn’t it?” Kari rearranged himself on the cushion. “Skyrim’s borders are jagged mountains on three sides and a frozen sea on the other. Do you know how difficult it is to survive a mountain pass, let alone guide an entire invasion force through? We could pick them off from the treetops. The Thalmor are good seafarers, but the Sea of Ghosts is named the Sea of Ghosts for a very good reason. And at the end of everything, you have the deadly Skyrim cold, which will freeze even Nords to death, let alone the Altmer, who are used to warm earth and balmy air. The land here will kill the Thalmor before any Nord has to even lift a finger.”

“The land has nearly killed me,” Zaynabi muttered.

“Anyway,” Kari went on, “I’ll take my chances with the Nords.”

“And I will go where there is money to be made,” Kharjo said. “It is all fair enough.”

They sat staring at the fire. Kari imagined Thalmor freezing to death in the mountains. It wasn’t a comforting image, strangely.

“Ice Claws?” he asked suddenly.

Kharjo’s grin arced slowly across his face the same crooked way bacon curled up when it was fried. He suppressed a laugh. “I am sorry. It is a terrible name. That is what they call you, out in the world. People know about you.”

“Another nickname.” He shrugged again. “It could be worse.”

“Ice Claws. Icicle Claws? Iciclaws?”

“An improvement, to be sure.”

Ahkari giggled; Zaynabi laughed.

The merriment drained out of Kari. He stood up and the other Khajiit looked up at him as if he’d turned into a giant beetle.

“I have to go to Windhelm,” he said.

“No,” Ahkari half-hissed, and Kari swore he could hear Clan Mother in her, “you’re staying here until the morning. It’s too dark and too cold.”

For a second he wanted to ask if he could stay with the caravan, to avoid looking at the faces of the soldiers he’d failed. No. He had to face up to his guilt, and face whatever they might think of him.

“I have to be with the men,” he said without looking at his companions.

“Take this at least,” Kharjo said, pressing a cloth-wrapped bundle into his hand, “it will give comfort to a troubled mind.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

Outside the tent, he untied the knot and opened the cloth. Inside were three Khajiiti cakes dusted with moon sugar. He bent his head and bit back tears.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kari is feeling very emotional. Not sure where that came from. He's probably channeling me.  
> Also, sorry about the bacon simile. It's weird. I like weird comparisons.
> 
> It's been several months in the coming, but...the boys are back in town. (I've been preoccupied with...let's just say I've found an Ulfric to my Kari. But with less arguing. And more cuddling.) This one's short...apologies, sera.


	13. Hindsight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kari is recalled to Whiterun to clash with Ulfric once more. On a spontaneous little trip, he remembers his days as a bandit and encounters a strangely knowing stranger.

"I'm to give these to you, Ripper."

"What?"

Kari turned to face the bewildered young Stormcloak with the folded missive in his hand.

"And Ulfric told Galmar to tell me to tell you, if you're still alive, to" - he cleared his throat - " 'get your furry ass back to Windhelm'."

Kari raised his eyebrows. The boy leapt back and raised his hands.

"Don't kill the messenger, please."

"Only if you don’t repeat that message. Can I have that?"

The boy relaxed and put the parchment under Kari's nose. He snatched it and broke the seal, muttering ‘so rude’.

As he read, the boy went away, stepping with cat-feet through the sleeping mass of Stormcloaks. They’d been allowed to stay at the inn for the night, as long as they paid, even though there weren’t enough rooms for all of them. Kari reckoned the innkeeper would regret making that decision.

 

‘The Stormcloaks have not taken control of Fort Snowhawk,’ the missive read, ‘Galmar Stone-Fist remains in Windhelm for preparations and the remaining Stormcloaks’ - the remaining Stormcloaks, as if dozens of them hadn’t been slaughtered or frozen to death - ‘shelter in Morthal. Orders for Ripper Kari or the next in command if Ripper is not alive.’ He turned over the page. ‘No more time is to be wasted taking Fort Snowhawk. Recall forces to Windhelm for supplies and rest. More orders to be dispatched in two days’ time.’

 

Curt and dismissive. Ulfric didn’t know they’d taken Fort Snowhawk. He seemed to think it a waste of time, even though half his men had been killed. He realised he was spending people’s lives here, surely? Kari felt his blood begin to heat up. He’d send some of these men to the fort and relieve the Stormcloaks who were there. He’d recall the rest to Windhelm, and send supplies to Fort Snowhawk. But he would ride there first, ahead of everyone, and give Ulfric a piece of his mind.

  


Hours later the doors of the palace swung open and Kari fumed inside. His anger had only grown with no one to quell it.

“Where is he?”

Jorleif looked at him wide-eyed and jerked his head towards the entryway. “Shrine of Talos.”

He huffed and stormed out of the palace, shedding snow on the ground behind him. He’d never set foot in the shrine of Talos, but he knew exactly where it lay, and he planned on dragging Ulfric out when he set eyes on him.

His plan failed as soon as he opened the door. The candles set up on either side of the narrow stone chamber guttered violently with the gust of freezing air, and they guided his eyes upwards and forwards to where the statue of Talos stood at the end of the room. All at once, Kari’s anger drained out of him and he relaxed as though he’d stepped into a sauna. He shut the door, and suddenly every move he made seemed too loud. A window high up on the wall cast a beam of white-blue light down on the rows of narrow pews. He could see Ulfric seated in the first pew. No one else was in sight, not even the priests. No one else except for Talos.

Kari stepped Khajiit-quiet up the aisle to one side and stared awestruck at the great statue looking down upon the room. The famous Nord’s gaze was lowered, down beyond the snake into whose hissing mouth he was about to plunge his blade. His face was calm. Wise. He stood composed, and strong in posture, but not vain; his demeanour was surprisingly humble for a Nord. Kari had seen similar statues dozens of times. But this figure struck him down to the core.

Before he realised it, he had come to the front of the aisle and stood at the feet of the statue. He turned to look at Ulfric and remembered his anger momentarily; but Ulfric sat with his head lowered and his eyes closed. He was praying.

Kari sat on the opposite side of the pew and decided he would wait until Ulfric was back in the world again. Talos wasn’t his god and he’d never really prayed to him. Maybe once or twice. As a deified Nord he didn’t strike Kari’s fancy. Although, if the stories about him were true, he was a hero. A good warrior, at any rate. Kari could appreciate that. And Talos had been a leader. He could appreciate that, too.

The deaths of the men he'd lost in battle were the easiest to bear. They had signed up for a fight, and they'd faced their chosen enemy. And they'd fallen. It was horrible - horrible, of course, the utter pointlessness of warfare. But it was something he understood, and although he felt these losses more keenly than he'd felt anything for the past decade, he could bear them.

It was the men he'd lost to the cold that he couldn't stop thinking about. They hadn't chosen the cold. It hadn't been in their plan. No Nord wanted to freeze to death. Their killer had come quick and unexpected, and taken them before they'd been able to vanquish their chosen enemy. They deserved a better death than being frozen black in the snow. And there was no defense, no formation, no move to use against the weather. It was just Skyrim, harsh land as it was, killing its own people.

Kari knitted his hands together and inclined his head. Maybe Talos was there in that room, maybe he wasn't. Maybe he'd been out there with them in the blizzard. Maybe Talos had seen good warriors slow until even their hearts stopped moving. Kari thought of those frozen souls and he prayed.

_Talos, please, if you're there, look after them. They are your people. They are your kind. You know the soul of a warrior. Please, give them the dignity they deserve, wherever they are. Recognise them. Don't forget them. Don't leave them. Please._

His hands grasped tight and his eyes were squeezed shut.

_If I have failed as a leader, don't let it haunt them in the afterlife. Talos, take care of them._

A hand touched Kari's shoulder and he jerked away from the contact, looking up in astonishment through eyes that had become wet. Ulfric looked at him, acceptance and a lack of judgement in his face. Kari swiped a hand across wet eyelashes and looked at the ground.

"Are you finished speaking?" Ulfric asked. Kari hadn't said a word aloud, but it was true, he had been speaking. He gazed back up at Talos, who seemed even wiser and kinder than before. His eyes followed the statue's sword down to its feet, and back up to Ulfric. He nodded.

"Come."

They didn’t speak until they set foot outside the shrine and shut the door behind them.

“I heard there was a blizzard.”

“Damn right there was. We took Fort Snowhawk anyway. We lost a lot of men.”

Ulfric’s look was unreadable. “They will be missed. We will have to send word to their families, as usual.”

“As usual.”

He looked out of the corner of his eye.

“Is that it?” Kari spat.

“Is what it?”

“Is that all you have to say for these fighters who died in your name?”

“They have the highest honour. Of course they have. You know there are casualties in warfare.”

“They froze to death. They didn’t even get to die in battle. Does a snow death get you to Sovngarde?”

Ulfric looked at the ground. They neared the doors to the palace and he lowered his voice as they came into earshot of the guards. “Every death is regrettable. I would rather there was no bloodshed, no sacrifice at all. But there is no avoiding it.” He looked Kari in the eye with a steely glare. “You know this. You’ve led men. Why is this striking you?”

Kari met his glare and said nothing.

“Have you never had anything to really fight for before?”

The Khajiit hissed. “You know I have.”

“What do you want me to do? Shout? Weep? Fall to my knees and pray to the gods to end the war? I have done those things. Once they have been done there is nothing else to do. Yes, that is all I have to say, because it is the truth. They will be missed.”

The guards were staring at Ulfric now, their eyes wide through the spectacle-guards of their helmets.

“I’m leaving for a few days,” Kari said suddenly, and turned on his heel. When Ulfric spoke there was concealed confusion in his voice.

“Be back here in two days’ time, Ripper. You have orders.” He waited a second before shouting after him again. “Kari!”

The Khajiit stopped and turned partly to listen.

“Go through the Snow Quarter on your way out.”

“The what?”

“The Snow Quarter. That’s the real name of the Grey Quarter.”

Kari said nothing in reply and trudged away.

 

He took a horse and began to ride wherever the road took him. He thought of the ways he could have been a better commander. A ruin flew by on his left. He thought of the things that he'd fought for in the past. A farmer jumped to the side of the road to avoid being run over. He felt a fire burning keenly in his chest. A wolf snarled nearby.

The sun dipped behind the mountains; Kari was drawn off the path, past an outcropping of boulders, and around a rocky hill. On the other side of the hill, the rocks curved inwards, creating a nook where shelter could be taken. A shrine of Talos sat under the rocky ceiling. Kari chuffed. It was as good a place as any to rest and think.

_Damn Ulfric. Damn him for being so charismatic. Damn him for his golden cause. Damn him for making me care._

_I could deal with this if I didn't care so damn much_.

Ulfric. He’d seemed so nonchalant about their losses. As if he’d expected them all to die. Sending men into battle knowing they might be killed was one thing. Sending them with the expectation that they would be slaughtered was another.

And yet Kari had led his own people into conflicts with his eye on the prize. At times his bloodlust and goldlust had overshadowed their safety. Towards the end it had been all about the fight.

Maybe Ulfric had gone the same way, after all. Or maybe Kari was just thinking twice about the entire civil war.

No. Ulfric had been a soldier - and a leader - for a long time. He knew the keen sense of loss. And he’d learned to deal with it. He’d said as much.

Kari slumped down and closed his eyes to the gloaming.

Did he even want to fight anymore?

He imagined the derelict mine his bandit outfit had made into their home. They’d had everything: decorations from merchant caravans, like candelabra and tapestries and fine rugs; all the weapons they could wish for; rich clothing; armour to fit an entire barracks; blankets for warmth and books and instruments for passing cold, quiet nights. The only thing they didn’t have in abundance was food. They never starved; when they got close, they snuck out and stole from villages and farmhouses. But they did ration, carefully.

There was even a child whose home was the mine. She had many parents from many places: Tiberius, from Cyrodiil; Antoninus, an Orc who had been raised in Cyrodiil; Gra-Dulz, an Orc from Orsinium; Francienne, a Breton poisoner who’d been exiled from High Rock; Ra-Tem, the Argonian abolitionist-turned-smuggler-turned-bandi; Garendir, the unlikely Bosmer strongman; and Kari. Their daughter was named Amara, and they’d found her as a baby, swaddled in a burnt-out fishing hut.

Francienne didn’t have time for her, and most of the others had been pillaging and stealing too long to remember what was appropriate for a child to learn. But Kari remembered the kits he had known in his clan, and he remembered playing with them in the sands and in the forests. He’d carved Amara a toy once. It was a piece of wood, crudely shaped to look like a Khajiiti woman in a shawl and budi. He didn’t know how to make humanoid faces. Amara appreciated it all the same. She found paints and gave it red eyes and grey skin, saying she wanted to make it look more like herself. To Kari it didn’t look like anything after that.

When it was her ninth birthday, he saved up flour and sugar for a couple weeks beforehand. He snuck out on a quiet night and bought moon sugar from a Khajiit caravan. Kari barely knew how to cook, but moon sugar cakes were the one thing he knew by heart. Hopefully a light dusting wouldn’t be too much for a young Dunmer girl - Khajiit had a resistance, he knew, and he didn’t think it would be responsible if he gave her a sugar high. He baked them at night, when she was asleep. Since he had so much moon sugar left over, he decided to make skooma. He hid the crystals under his bedroll; Francienne sold or bartered anything she deemed ‘extra’, and she would steal his stash if she knew about it. The others didn’t care about his occasional habit.

He woke Amara up on the morning of her birthday - what they assumed to be her birthday - with the scent of sweetcakes. Her face took on the excited look of a child who has only ever seen sweet things, and she picked up one up to look at it in wonder. He told her she could eat them for breakfast, but she took just one and saved the others for later.

He was in the middle of a pipe of skooma when Ra-Tem came into his section of the tunnel, shouting that they’d seen a fat, loaded cart out on the road. It was a family, she said, rich Dunmer fugitives with their young son. In his skooma-soaked state Kari leapt up, smashing the table he’d been leaning on, and sped out of the mine, thoughts full of gold and violence. He didn’t notice that Amara had followed him outside.

Tiberius had just sprung the trap, and rocks came cascading down the road towards the cart. Kari watched them try to swerve away, but the rocks slammed into the horse’s head and bounced into the driver’s seat, knocking him backwards and killing him instantly. A child began screaming. The woman in the passenger seat jumped out, avoiding the rocks that threatened to roll over her feet, and made her way to the back of the cart. Gra-Dulz’s arrows flew past the woman’s head. One caught her in the arm; she called out and stumbled, but continued on her way.

Kari barreled down to the road and Gra-Dulz stopped shooting. She shouted at him to get out of her line of fire, but the words came through his addled mind in a syrupy muddle. All he saw was the Dunmer woman struggling to reach her child in the back. He leapt on her, his strength amplified to unnatural levels, and with a simple bat of his paw he’d torn her back to ribbons of flesh. He heard himself roar and felt blood dripping down his claws. Then the wailing of the child pierced his ears and became the only noise he could hear. He needed to make it stop.

He saw the back of the cart. He saw the little screaming thing in its colourful clothes. He saw the tears on its grey face. He could almost see the infuriating sound coming from the hole in its face. Without thinking, he wrapped his fingers around its head - small enough to fit in his hand - and drove his claws into its skull. The noise stopped. He felt soft flesh underhand. Quiet.

He’d already started back up the road to the mine before it all really registered. When he realised he’d killed a child, something buried deep made him stop in his tracks. The rest of him didn’t care, whether because of the skooma or because of his occupation.

Gra-Dulz grumbled at him as she made her way down to loot. Tiberius ran past him without speaking. He barely noticed them. Instead he was looking at the entrance of the mine, where Amara stood, a sweetcake in her hand and a vacant look on her face. She didn’t speak to him afterwards, and she disappeared during the night. They never learned where she had gone.

 

He took the Khajiiti cakes out of his pack and opened the cloth again. A stiff wind lifted the corners of the fabric around his hand and the faint scent of moon sugar twisted something in his chest.

  


He was awake and listening before he realised he’d fallen asleep. Crunching footsteps found their way to his ears again, and he jumped into a crouch. His horse grazed nearby and showed no signs of alarm. The steps came around the outcropping. He saw the armoured foot before he saw the man.

He had wispy hair and a weathered face, and eyes that glowed even with his currently surprised expression.

“Are you alright?” he asked. There was a sword at his side, but his hands remained where they were.

“Just resting,” Kari replied, and straightened.

“A good place for it,” he replied, and nodded at the statue of Talos.

Kari nodded once, and watched the man sit down effortfully in front of the shrine. His sword flashed in the moonlight and it was then that Kari noticed it was an Imperial officer’s blade.

“I should kill you,” Kari said idly.

The man looked up with amused surprise. “So why aren’t you?”

“I am tired, for one.” He paused. “And you are praying to Talos, for another.”

“Stormcloak?”

Kari nodded, then realised the man wasn’t looking at him. “Yes.”

“Well. We all fight for what we think is right. Ultimately, that is the right thing.”

Kari frowned.

“My name is Wulf.”

“Kari.”

“It’s a pleasure. For the record, I’m retired. Don’t worry about me fighting you blue-cloaks. I’m an old man.”

“I should go.”

“Seeking advice from the great warrior and leader Tiber Septim.”

“What?”

“That’s why you were here? Praying to Talos for guidance?”

No. He was there because it was a good place to rest. Come to think of it, who came to a shrine in the wilderness to pray in the middle of the night?

“Yes,” he said, and somehow it was the truth. “I’ve...I’m doubting my leadership.” Why was he spilling his guts to an Imperial stranger?

Wulf turned to look up at him. There was a kindly gleam in his eye. “There is nothing we can do for those who have died. Every soldier and leader knows this. But sometimes you wake up one day and realise - you’ve been living with your eyes closed, and suddenly you see everything in clear, stark light.” He turned back to the shrine.

Kari blinked hard, frowned again, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again when he had nothing to say.

“That doesn’t mean the fight is not worth it,” the old man added. “It’s when you realise you have something to live for that dying seems all the worse.”

Now, Kari simply froze. His words struck him to the core. Maybe Wulf was one of those with the sight, who could see the secret things in people.

Kari turned and padded to his horse.

“Go with honour,” Wulf said, and the wind carried his words to Kari’s ears.

 

His heart was considerably lighter as he rode back to Windhelm.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've played Morrowind, you might remember an old Imperial soldier at Ghostgate who gives you a coin to take with you to Red Mountain. His name was Wulf, and it turned out that he was an aspect of Tiber Septim/Talos. Spooky woo-woo going on here.


	14. Back in Windhelm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our Khajiiti hero finds himself in between a rock and a hard place: keep fighting for Ulfric, or give up his violent ways? Stay tuned!

He had rushed out of Windhelm before, ignoring Ulfric’s request to look at the Grey Quarter - now he wandered humbly through the streets, watching the people and seeing a change already in the neighbourhood. Dunmer cleaned the streets alongside Nords; people moved crates of belongings through the alleyways, obviously moving house; and the whole area had guards patrolling and watching. It didn't look much different, but the energy among the buildings and on the faces said otherwise. A familiar face passed by Kari, and he turned around to talk to him.

"Malthyr, how goes it?"

The Dunmer spun around on his heel and leaned back, like a fish caught on a line.

"Kari, isn't it?" he said, a faint smile pulling at his mouth. "You liked our quarter enough to come back."

"I was told to look. What is going on?"

Malthyr squished himself against the side of a building to avoid a man with a wide cart. "Ulfric has finally decided to pay attention to this part of the city."

"How?"

"A better question is 'why'," he snorted. "He's allowed Dunmer to live outside the Grey Quarter, he's put out guards, as you can see, he's set people to cleaning up. I hear the buildings are to be spruced up, as well. Gods know what brought him to it, but I won't say I'm not glad."

"It must have taken a fool to try to talk him into it."

"A bloody fool, no doubt. But a lucky one."

Kari grimaced. Whatever anger he had left over had disappeared into thin air.

"I'd invite you in for a drink, Khajiit, but the cornerclub is a zoo at the moment. Come by some other time and we can make a toast that this keeps up."

"I'll bet you a mazte that it does."

"Ooh, careful now, I might just come find you for that." That was the first time Kari saw him grin.

 

The rest of the day, he wandered around the city and the palace in a hazy state. Eventually he retired to his quarters and flicked mindlessly through whatever books had found their way onto his bookshelf. That night, endless threads of thought tugged at his mind and kept him from sleep. Growling, he pulled on a cloak and left his chamber, closing the door as quietly as possible. He padded through the hallways of the upper palace and found a sliver of a window in a small alcove. He leaned against the ancient stonework and peered out the opening. The sky was the colour that Kari had become used to, that magical, rich blue-black of Skyrim. Straining to see above, he could just spot the faint bands of green and yellow. The aurora. He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and relaxed a little.

A sudden shuffle on the stonework behind him made him spin around. Ulfric stood there, half hidden by the corner where the hallway turned.

“My apologies,” he muttered. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“No, wait. Stay.”

He looked up at Kari, weary, with faintly bloodshot eyes.

“What do you pray for, Ulfric?”

He took a deep breath, held it, then let it out slowly. “I pray for strength.”

Really? “You’re one of the strongest people I know.”

“I need to be strong enough to lead. To bear the losses.” He looked pointedly at Kari. “To hold true to the cause.”

Kari turned towards the window again.

“I thought I was going to freeze to death out there.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you didn’t.”

"I think the cloak you gave me saved my life."

He turned back around just in time to see Ulfric smiling faintly. They looked at each other for several seconds, staring each other in the naked eye.

Ulfric jerked his head towards the hallway. “Come,” he said softly.

Kari followed him as quietly as possible - somehow the night time commanded silence, even though no sound carried through the palace's stone walls. He listened to Ulfric's footsteps, slow and steady. Up the stairs they went, to the solid door to the Jarl's bedroom. Ulfric opened the door in an uncharacteristically hospitable manner and beckoned for Kari to go inside.

For the first time in years, he felt timid and cowed. He held his hands in front, meekly, and his tail twitched from side to side in a small arc. Was he supposed to stand? Would it be imposing if he sat? What was going on?

Ulfric shut the door. Vague amusement flashed in his eyes when he looked at Kari.

“Come by the fire,” he said. “Sit.”

The two chairs sat in front of the fire, partially facing each other. They were close enough to each other to be personal, but far enough away so as not to be confining. Ulfric settled himself in one, crossing one leg over a knee and covering his hands with his furs. Kari sat tightly coiled, watching Ulfric watching the fire.

There were things he wanted to say that he hadn’t even known he’d thought about. ‘I don’t want to fight anymore.’ ‘I don’t want to kill.’ ‘I fight for you and for your cause, but I can’t lead.’ ‘Don’t put anyone’s life in my hands again.’ ‘I’d die for you. Maybe I shouldn’t.’ ‘I’d live for you.’

Instead he opened his mouth and said, “You did good things in the Grey Quarter.”

Ulfric’s eyes remained glued to the fire. “The Snow Quarter,” he said softly.

“Aye.”

“You got me thinking.”

Kari waited for whatever was left of the thought. It didn’t come. “Thinking about what?”

The Jarl shrugged more forcefully than normal. His jaw was clenched. “How you were right,” he said, eyebrows furrowed.

“About?”

His eyes moved to Kari’s face and Kari almost regretted pushing him. “About getting caught up in the fight.”

“You never forgot your cause like I did, if that’s what you mean.”

“No, but…” His hand went up to his forehead and lingered before it dropped onto the arm of the chair in a fist. “Skyrim is home to more than just Nords. I couldn’t see that even in my own city until a foreigner like you slapped me in the face with it.”

“Actually it was you who was punching a dummy at the time.”

Something like danger flashed over Ulfric’s face.

“Alright, alright. You’ve done the right thing.”

They both relaxed; Ulfric from having admitted his fault, and Kari from having gotten on his Jarl’s nerves. Everything felt normal again. Except for the warmth growing in Kari’s heart and the odd feeling that he was literally glowing.

“Where did you go yesterday?” Ulfric asked.

“I ended up at a shrine of Talos. In the wild.”

“Did it help you?”

Kari tilted his head from side to side, considering. “Yes and no. Ulfric, I…” What was he about to tell him? Ulfric looked up at him. Was that anticipation on his face, or was Kari imagining things? “I don’t want to lead.”

“We all go through that.”

“I don’t want to fight anymore.”

Once again, there was steel in his eyes as he glared pointedly at the Khajiit. “Don’t be naïve,” he said, and his voice was cutting. “You know we have no choice but to go up against the Empire.”

"Of course. Of course. I know."

"You're very important to us."

Sitting there, looking at Ulfric's face half-lit by firelight, regal in his chair, Kari felt driven to charge into battle, fuelled only by loyalty and something like reverence. He tried to smother it. He knew he supported the cause, he knew it, but...somehow it wasn’t enough to cover the guilt that had come washing over him in the past days. He had to leave. And his love for Ulfric wasn’t enough to make him stay. There was no telling Ulfric that he was leaving the Stormcloaks. The man would probably keep him hostage and force him to fight.

"I have regrets, that's all."

"Like all leaders, and most warriors." Ulfric leaned forward, elbows on knees, and his face softened. "I don't know exactly what has given you so much doubt, but I do know that you're dedicated to us. Remember that, if nothing else." He looked down. "We need you."

Kari nodded without looking. But he could still feel Ulfric's eyes on him, and he looked up, and was fixed under that gaze. If he hadn't lost the ability to speak he would have had to spit out the truth, several truths, but all he could do was stare and wonder what was going on in Ulfric's head. Suddenly he was extremely aware of the fire crackling and the hard wood of the chair and the heat on his face. Ulfric leaned towards him.

Then, lips were on his, chapped bow-curve lips, and his eyes shut themselves. The kiss was chaste; closed mouths, only a second or two. They came apart and Kari looked at Ulfric with something like shock.

"What?" he said, barely audible. "We've done this before."

"But..."

"What?"

But I hadn't realised I was in love with you before. "But a jarl should not be so comfortable with one of his commanders," he said weakly.

Ulfric shrugged. "Who says?" He got down on his knees in between Kari's legs so they could be closer. "Take good things where you find them."

He'd just decided that was good advice when Ulfric's hand settled behind his head and he was pulled into another kiss, much less chaste. Hot breaths wended their way across Kari's cheek. He heard his jarl's wolf-growl and clouds obscured his mind. Ulfric's free hand gripped Kari's shoulder; Kari's hands clawed at his back and buttocks hungrily, and his rough tongue found Ulfric's, hot and soft.

"Kari," he whispered between breaths. Kari realised his own hands had come up to rest on Ulfric's cheeks. He kissed his lips, his cheek, his jaw, his throat, his ear. Everything was Ulfric. The jarl grunted; Kari's tongue flicked around the edge of his ear and he gasped. Around the edge again, and a flick inside, and a nip on his earlobe, and Ulfric moaned and clawed at Kari's clothes. Satisfaction churned inside Kari’s chest and desire twisted his stomach. He sighed as Ulfric nuzzled his way down his neck. Then a wave of panic soured his mouth and he jumped back.

“No.” The word escaped before he realised he was going to say it. Ulfric froze. “I can’t.”

“You could before.”

“Well, I can’t now.”

Ulfric exhaled loudly through his nose and got to his feet to sit back in his chair.

"Solitude."

“What?”

“Solitude."

"Taking Solitude? Already?"

"It is best to cut the head off snakes. Fort Hraggstad outside Solitude is our next objective. From there we will be prepared to cripple Solitude's remaining defences."

Kari nodded. "How many men?"

"As many as can be spared. Skeleton crews in all the holds except for the Reach and Whiterun Hold. And all my commanders."

“When are we leaving?”

“Tomorrow.”

Kari nodded again. “I should go.”

“You can stay, you know.”

“I should go.”

Ulfric looked away. “I will see you tomorrow.”

 

His chair was even harder and more unwelcome than those in Ulfric's room. The young light coming in through his window told him it was early morning already. He looked to the fireplace. The fire was still burning away, even though it had shrunk to one meek tongue of flame. He stared until his eyes unfocused. He knew it was dangerous, that people saw things in the fire that they would rather not see. Evil spirits. The foreboding future. The haggard past. But he couldn't tear his eyes away, and he saw Clan Mother Azadha, and his band of warriors, and the people whose lives and wealth he'd taken, and Amara's face, and the faces of the Stormcloaks who he'd seen shot in the back and frozen in the snow. What a lot of deaths he’d caused. Were they worth it?

 

He wasn’t going to go into battle with the Stormcloaks.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried. I really tried to write a sex scene. But it was lame and filled with apathy so I cut it. Sorry to have disappointed.  
> I'm really dissatisfied with this chapter. It's crap. But here you go anyway, because deadlines and stuff.  
> Also, Kari is very confused. Partially because I am confused and he keeps doing sudden and unexpected things. Uncharacteristic? Maybe. Let's just say he's having a crisis.


	15. Tail Between The Legs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Battling conflicting instincts and loyalty, Kari decides to follow the Stormcloaks on their way to Fort Hraggstad.

_Tiger of Ra’Vin - I was supposed to be proud of that one. Shredder of Skins - Once, I was proud of that one, too. Ice Claws - I don’t even know what to think._ Snow crunched underfoot. His pack was heavy over his shoulders. He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew where he didn’t want to be. _No one else is going to die because of my bullshit mistakes. You’re just a fighter, Kari. You can’t do anything else. If you’re not killing someone, you’re useless. What in Alkosh’s name am I doing?_ He’d taken the copy of Children of the Sky with him; he didn’t know why. Maybe as a reminder that he didn’t really belong in Skyrim after all. The hard cover grated against his spine under the weight of everything else in the pack. _I'm betraying the Stormcloaks by doing this._

He tried not to think of what of Ulfric would say, what he was probably saying at this moment. The Windhelm contingent would have left the city by now to meet up with the other detachment at Fort Hraggstad. They would be cursing him soon. Where was he going? Now he was climbing a hill where a river ran at a steep incline. If he remembered correctly, there was a mill around here somewhere. He could ask them the way to Solitude, follow the soldiers, see how they… But then what would be the point in deserting, if he was just going to shadow them anyway? It was a terrible idea, really.

The first person he saw, a Nord woman in a faded working dress, frowned when he asked her the way to Solitude. “Follow the main road, through here. Goes past Dawnstar,” she said.

“Is there another way?”

‘Are you crazy?’ her face said. She scoffed. “Through the wild.”

He decided he would have to follow the Stormcloaks on the main road, a mile or so behind. He headed towards the road west, at times crossing a path here or there on the downward incline. The sounds of wild animals made him stop and his ears prick up occasionally. Once on the road, he allowed his thoughts to wander. He wondered how far the Stormcloaks had made it. They could march leagues in a day - he knew it firsthand - but he didn’t know where they were meeting up with the Haafingar detachment. If he could catch up with them before noon, he wouldn’t risk losing them.

He looked up. The sun came into his face at an angle. He squinted. Clear day. Unusually warm for Skyrim. Mountains had appeared on his left as well as his right by the time he realised he needed new boots. They weren’t proper Dwarven boots; they only had Dwarven plates attached to the shins, calves, and over the foot, and the reinforced leather at the toe had worn away and was wearing through to his toes and the balls of his feet. He didn’t look forward to going through the mountain pass to Dawnstar in these boots, but the only other way to Solitude was longer, down past Whiterun, and he knew Ulfric would be taking the soldiers the quickest way. Even though they had lost men to the weather during the last siege.

Harsh voices sliced through his thoughts. They were in front of him, whoever they were: one, two people at least. They had to be beyond the bend. He crept forwards as quickly and silently as possible, cursing the slush that found its way in between his toes. He cleared the bend and immediately slid behind the scant bushes he found. He swore under his breath. They wore Thalmor uniforms. Three of them, and someone who looked like a prisoner.

He wasn’t in Stormcloak armour. There was a chance he could get by them pretending to be just a traveling citizen, but he would have to leave the prisoner to their demise. If they were a prisoner of the Thalmor, it was likely they were a Talos worshipper or a Stormcloak. He had bigger fish to fry. And he wasn’t using violence anymore, except for self-defense. Squaring himself, he stood and strode out to the middle of the road. They hadn’t seen him and continued on their way forwards. He made a racket, dragging his heels conspicuously, and one of the Thalmor turned their head to look at him. The elf said a few words to his comrades, and they all stopped at once, the prisoner between them, to watch Kari pass. He walked with his head down, one foot steady in front of the other.

Then he made the mistake of looking up at the prisoner and he hesitated for a split second. It was Marya whose hands they had tied up. Hands that Kari remembered summoning storm atronachs.

“Something the matter, civilian?” sneered one of the Thalmor. He stood still and silent, and held Marya’s eye. She shook her head almost imperceptibly. Kari kept walking as if he really were just a farmer or a merchant on the road. He’d almost gotten a stone’s throw away from the Thalmor when he heard one call out, “That’s a Stormcloak cape!” He could almost hear their scowls and turned around just in time to see them, too.

He dodged the nearest Thalmor’s blade and went straight for Marya. Magicka crackled at her fingertips; he leapt towards her, and saw the blood come streaming from her throat. The Thalmor holding the blade grinned and dropped her. Kari twisted the weapon from his grip and kicked him in the knee over Marya’s gurgling. The elf crumpled to the ground, yowling. Kari heard crackling behind and jumped to the side to see a ball of flames shoot past his head. He turned. The mage stood back a ways, but the knife-wielding Thalmor was almost upon him. The elf swung low; Kari blocked with his forearm and twisted his arm around the elf’s, pulling the knife in close where it couldn’t stab him. His other hand closed around the Thalmor’s neck and punctured holes in his windpipe. The knife dropped from his hand and he convulsed. Kari pulled him around to block the incoming gout of flame; some fire reached his fur, but the air was mostly filled with the stench of burning skin and fabric. Kari threw the elf to the ground and charged the mage - there was no defense against magic except for speed and surprise, and this mage wore the most surprised look as Kari thumped into him and tackled him to the ground. He felt heat spread through his thin leather jerkin. He grabbed hold of the Thalmor’s head, fingers closing over pointy ears, and bashed his head into the rocky ground. The elf was unconscious, at least - Kari rushed to Marya, but she was already drained and lifeless.

He stood there dumb for several minutes. He'd decided not to fight them, but she'd been killed anyway. Anger swelled in him in a hot wave - he pushed it away. He knew not to follow it. A bitter taste welled up in his throat. The two elves that were still alive began to stir. Kari jogged away from them before they came to their senses. Then, he trudged onwards, his head down, his eyes glued to the path in front of him. The sun passed overhead and became dull.

Snow had started to fall just past Dawnstar when he saw the moving mass of stormy blue cloaks and slushy footprints. He followed them until the sky became an inky blue. Voices and sounds made their way to him in the growing breeze as they set up camp in a dip of land just off the road. He himself set up his meagre camp and decided against a fire in case it attracted their attention. A pitiful supply of food sat in front of him, along with a blanket and a waterskin. He hoped he wouldn’t freeze in the cold overnight. Long minutes passed before he realised he was staring empty-minded at the ground. The wind huffed, blowing a chill down his spine, and he thought he could hear speech.

‘Deserting...’

‘...don’t think...the kind to...’

‘...not here, so...’

‘..long gone.’

Were those his friends? Were they talking about him? At this point he wouldn’t be surprised if he was hearing things. He'd messed up again and he deserved whatever his mind was doing to fool with him.

Despite the cold and the breeze, he drifted off sometime after midnight and fell into restless dreams. He was in Elsweyr, among towering dunes of sand that swelled like ocean waves. He stood on a peak peered into the sun, strangely dull as it was. A bird crossed the rays of burning disc and plummeted downwards, deep into the valley between dunes. His eyes followed it as it fell and lay motionless at the bottom. It was alive, he knew, and he had to save it, keep it from being drowned in sand. The sand under his feet crumbled as he tries to climb down; he slipped, splashing sand everywhere, and fell onto the bird. Sand careened onto his back, then stopped.

He rolled over. Above him was a leaning mass of sand, just on the verge of tipping. He was frozen in place. It started to fall, a few grains at a time, then inexorably more and more sand came down onto his face and eyes and nose. He sucked air in and coughed, and more came down to fill his mouth. He tried to breathe, but there was no air. The dune came down upon him with the force of a crashing wave, and all was blackness. Then, in the blackness, there was Ulfric. The Jarl walked up to him, kindness written on his face, and put his hand on Kari's upper arm.

"We all doubt our loyalties," he said. "Except for bears. They are loyal to fish." He evaporated and became a pile of icicles jingling at Kari's feet.

When he woke there was snow and silence lying heavy over the ground. At first he didn't recognise his camp. He blinked, furrowing his brow. He'd followed the Stormcloaks. But when he sat up, he couldn't see them. Uncertainty tied a knot in his stomach. He stood up, craning his neck. He could see some tents now, but there didn't seem to be any movement. The thick white clouds hid the sun and he didn't know what time it was. Had he missed them? He threw his things into his pack in a jumble and stalked towards the Stormcloak camp. Some rustling sounds, a fire crackling, the clang of an anvil. The few faces that were there turned to look at him, some of them disinterested, others wide with surprise.

They passed by his peripheral - he marched on towards the general's tent. He opened the flap, ducked inside, and there, leaning over a table, was Ulfric. Galmar was sitting on a stool next to him. He looked up, stifled a smile and cleared his throat. Ulfric looked up. Kari stood with his back straight and his head held high, but nothing prepared him for the glare that Ulfric levelled at him. The bear straightened and took a step towards Kari.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of quiet chapter, but it's setup for the shitstorm next chapter.


	16. Backpedaling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Digging graves is not very exciting.

Ulfric's eyes blazed and he seemed to be deciding what to call Kari. His jaw tightened; a fist flew into Kari’s face and the Khajiit instinctively blocked it with his wrist. Kari’s own fist came up for a counterstrike before he realised what he was doing. He stopped himself at the last minute, his fist halting an inch away from the Jarl’s jaw. There were the beginnings of surprise on Ulfric’s face, either at being stopped so quickly or nearly being hit so quickly. Kari put down his arms and backed up half a step. If Ulfric wanted to hit him, he’d give him the satisfaction.

A split second later Ulfric’s other fist slammed into his jaw and he was sent toppling to the ground. He heard Galmar gasp and Ulfric grunt. He stood up and dared to look Ulfric in the face. Disgust was written there, as he’d feared.

“You yellow-bellied milk-drinker. You’re not a Stormcloak anymore, _Ice Claws_.” He turned his back on Kari. When he spoke again, his voice was as low and cold as ice plains wind. “Get out of my sight.”

They waited in silence for him to leave, but he stood there, unwilling to accept the exchange as final. Galmar looked from Kari to Ulfric, and Kari knew Ulfric would stand there all day before he let Kari take control of the situation. Stubborn blockhead.

“I told you I would not fight.”

He thought he heard a hiss from his Jarl.

“I will not fight anymore.”

Neither of them said anything. But he couldn’t leave with Ulfric hating him. His feet wouldn’t budge. Kari was going to get something out of Ulfric before he left this tent.

“I will repair gear. I will bury the dead. I will heal the wounded. But I will not fight.”

“You’re Ripper Kari. What use are you if you aren’t killing?”

Kari’s brow furrowed. His tail whipped around. His nose twitched and he felt the thick scars on his face twist around with the movement. “You will see what use I am.”

Ulfric turned slightly when he said that. That was enough for Kari. He was still a figure in the Jarl’s mind; he could still make him pay attention. Kari could live with that.

The flap closed behind Kari and he straightened to see the Stormcloaks returning from Fort Hraggstad. They trickled in, many of them missing helmets and weapons. Some of them looked at him and sneered with disdain; most of them trudged on by, exhausted. He watched them blankly and part of him wished he could become invisible, or at least not noticeable, like so many of his race. The other part of him made him stand up straight. His eyes ran over Ralof, and close behind him Thorri. The faces came in, some familiar, some entirely fresh, until the end of the line, where soldiers carried stretchers bearing the wounded, and at the very end clanked a cart piled with bodies.

He rushed towards them and took the place of a man who was struggling with a stretcher. Kari had never been in the sick-tents, but he followed the others and set the stretcher down among the lines of wounded and dying. The Stormcloaks filed out and the only movement was the healers, making their way between the injured, and those still conscious enough to be stirred by their pain.

He recognised one of them by their hands. Birgit. She was knelt over a woman with a missing, bandaged arm. He nearly called her name, then thought better of it and padded towards her quietly.

Birgit looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

"Kari!" she exclaimed, facing him. "Couldn't stay away?"

His lips pursed. "No, but I tried. I'm not fighting anymore."

"Neither are some of them," she said low, and gestured around the tent. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to help."

"Doing what?"

"Anything I can."

"You can wash blood off of people. Saves me time."

"I was hoping you could teach me how to heal."

She sat up straight. "You're joking."

"I can do it. I used to know a spell. I'm just rusty, that is all."

She took her hands off the woman and Kari vaguely felt the magicka dissipate from the air.

"Alright," she said. "Meet me outside at nightfall. But don't expect a lot. I'm knackered after healing all these people."

"You've got more stamina than when you healed me in Markarth," Kari said, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah. Well. I've had to heal a lot." She frowned at him. "You could help by burying the dead."

Kari nodded.

"You should come with me."

He followed her out of the tent and towards one end of the camp, bordered by trees. He could hear water running nearby.

Along the tree-line lay a string of bodies, bloodied and pale-skinned. It had looked like fewer on the cart.

Birgit walked down the line, looking at the faces. She stopped.

"Kari."

He followed her gaze and it was a second before he recognised the face, pale, and splotched with blood and dirt.

"I remember you were friends?"

He nodded. It was Edla, and she still looked at stoic as she ever had.

"She had many," Birgit said, and paused. "There will be others along shortly, with shovels and burial cloth." She strode away, leaving Kari to contemplate the friends he'd left behind - and the friends who'd left everyone behind.

 

He dug.

Why not build, instead of destroy? Why not preserve, instead of let crumble? Of course they needed soldiers - there was no rebellion without it - but they needed healers, too. People who were left over once the storm claimed so many lives. People who had the energy to carry on Ulfric's rebellion once the soldiers were too tired. Maybe he was needed in the front lines, yes...he couldn't. But he was needed, too, to help. He could help the blacksmiths, or the men building fortifications. Once it was all over maybe he'd become a builder, or a farmer, or a trader. Skyrim would be independent again. And it would need support to strengthen itself.

He knew what Ulfric would say to persuade him, if he weren't furious with him.

We're so close, there's only a few battles left. You're a symbol, Ripper, we need you to lead the front. Every man counts, especially excellent fighters like you. One man could make the whole difference.

The damned thing was, it was all true. If the Stormcloaks failed to take Solitude he would always question himself. And Ulfric would blame him, right up until they cut off his head.

He dug.

"Not sure if there's even enough of us to conquer Solitude."

Kari looked around. Were they speaking to him? He'd somehow tuned them out the whole time.

"We don't have to conquer Solitude. Just get inside and stop them from attacking us. Hopefully capture Tullius."

The other gravediggers thrust their shovels into the ground with a steady, laconic pace.

"Kill Tullius, you mean."

"Isn't that unwise?"

"Fuck the Empire."

"Of course, but...we'll need even the Empire supporters once this is over."

The other didn't reply, but Kari could just see him forcefully shrug his shoulders.

Kari paused and leaned on his shovel. He stared into the trees. The wind lifted the branches ever so slightly and rubbed the needles together. He breathed in deep and the resinous scent settled in his lungs.

"Hey, we're digging, not enjoying the view here," one of the diggers said. There was an audible thump and a hiss.

"That's Ice Claws, you goat turd. He'll rip you to shreds."

There was quiet as they both stopped shovelling, and Kari knew they were waiting for him to react. He stared into the trees still, and he didn't feel like scaring the new guy to maintain his reputation. But he didn't want to roll over like a kit, either. He lowered his best glare at them.

"I won't rip off your face if you forget that stupid nickname," he called across the graves, and picked up his shovel again.

They were frozen, still looking at him. When one shovelful of dirt hit the pile he looked up, flashing sly eyes and a snarl of a smile. The diggers relaxed and their thin laughs floated across the air.

_ Huh. Will they call me Bandage Claws when I heal people? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short and boring. Bear with me while I gear up for the grand emotional finale. We've got one chapter left, maybe two.


	17. Healing Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kari tries to do what he can to help the Stormcloaks take Solitude - but Ulfric doesn't want his help.

He stared at the map. His breath fogged in front of him, as if they were clouds passing over the ink mountains on the parchment. He admired how a mass of simple, measured lines could represent an entire province.

Province. He’d have to get out of the habit of using that word. Territory. Region. Nation, now that sounded better. As much as he hated the feeling, he missed how his legionary armour used to fit, how the boots sounded marching in time.

The flags had been turning from red to blue in all the important places, but none of it would matter much if he didn’t take Solitude. The fight would be hard, and it could go very badly. They couldn’t lose their momentum now.

When Ripper hadn’t shown up for Hraggstad, he’d felt like a support he hadn’t known was there had crumbled under his feet. It stung, and it still felt like a betrayal even after Kari had come back afterwards, trying not to seem meek, wanting to help in meaningless ways.

They weren’t meaningless, and the Stormcloaks could use help. Ulfric took a deep breath. It was just that Kari was a killer, not a healer. It was like asking a lumberjack to plant trees. He might know how to do it, but it wasn’t was he was good at. Not what he was made for. Truth be told, Ulfric had never thought of the Khajiit without also thinking of violence. They were both soldiers, after all; it was second nature to them, to be aware in their bodies at all times, always ready for a fight. It didn’t seem right that Kari should back away from the fight now, and it wasn’t the Kari that Ulfric knew. And yet he would have never said that his healers and smiths and suppliers were backing away from the fight. They were just as important as the men bleeding on the field. He knew that.

Ripper had changed, and that was that. The fact remained that he had deserted before a battle. Maybe he’d change his mind once he dug the graves of his friends.

It was a second or two before he realised Galmar had come into the tent, ostensibly waiting for orders. Ulfric glanced up at him.

“Is the siege crew nearby?”

“All accounted for.”

“And the siege machines?”

“Ready.”

Ulfric raised an eyebrow. Surprising. There was always a problem of some kind. Maybe they really would be able to attack before Solitude was completely ready.

“Tonight, then, Galmar. Spread the word. The soldiers will go in once the artillery have destroyed the towers and gate.”

The bear head nodded and disappeared.

****  
  


Kari struggled to focus on the magicka flowing through his arms, wrists, and into his palms and fingertips. The man under him groaned, probably because it wasn’t working, or because the magicka wasn’t actually healing him, just making him feel like he was being burned. Kari could feel Birgit frowning at his side. He ignored it. Flow. Light. Healing. Flow.

Then it stopped, like he was just out of energy.

“You’ve depleted yourself,” Birgit said, thinly hiding her weariness.

“It’s difficult to concentrate.”

“You’re not focusing the energy enough; it’s dissipating. Remember what I told you last night.”

“More is not more. I know.”  
She sighed through her nose. “You’re getting it, though.”

“Thank you.”

The man groaned. Birgit inclined her head at Kari.

“Go get some breakfast. I’ll come out once the worst have been attended to.”

He still hadn't gotten used to the disdainful stares. He was used to being stared at, certainly, and he'd endured ridicule many times, but he was used to respect and friendship from most of these people. He knew he wouldn't have given a daedra's ass years ago, and he growled at himself that he was bothered now.

The Stormcloaks were all in the mushy silence of eating when Kari arrived at the ration tent. A weary ration-man handed him an apple and a few strips of horker jerky. Kari nibbled on the jerky - dry, and potent, but filling - and looked for the person he knew would still be a friend.

Ralof was sitting at the edge of camp, looking out over the river. At short range, Kari threw the apple at him, and it bounced gently off his back and rolled into the slush. Ralof turned in time to see Kari’s regretful face as he picked up the dirty apple.

“Waste of an apple,” he said.

“Damned to oblivion if I’m not going to eat it anyway,” Kari replied, rubbing it across his tunic.

“So you’re back?”

“I’m not fighting anymore.”

Ralof raised his eyebrows in anticipation of a response. “What _are_ you doing?”

“I’m doing whatever I can.” He took a bite of the apple and it crunched off the core. “But I’m trying to help with the healing.”

Ralof’s eyebrows went up even more. “Does Ulfric know you’re back?”

Kari paused. “He knows.”

The Nord looked away towards the distant mountains.

"Not sure why I'm doing this," Ralof said. His voice was heavy. "I mean, we all joined for the same reason. But what’s going to happen, even if we win? More battles, of a different kind. Rebuilding. Resisting the Thalmor. Fixing broken families.”

Kari sat next to him in minutes of silence. “What happened to your Imperial friend? Hadvar?”

“He said he was going to go back to Tullius.”

“That’s one way to show your gratitude.”

Ralof tilted his head. “I can’t blame him. I saved his life because I wanted him to live, and that’s that.”

The sun climbed higher and clouds obscured the distant peaks.

“How can I get back into the battlefield?”

“I thought you weren’t fighting anymore.”

“I’m not. But I need to be out there with Ulfric.”

“I’ll pretend I don’t know why you’re really asking that,” Ralof said, raising an eyebrow, “but you can ask to be put in with the rank-healers. They’d have you, I’m sure, even though you refuse to fight now.”

Kari tried not to let his face fall. Was it widespread knowledge that Kari was dedicated to Ulfric because of things more complicated than loyalty?

Ralof seemed to read his mind. “Don’t worry, only a few of us know.”

“A few of you?”

He smiled slightly and shrugged.

But does Ulfric himself know, Kari wondered.

He wouldn’t bother asking Galmar. Even though he knew Galmar liked him, the man was obliged to stick to Ulfric’s opinions. Maybe Yrsarald, if he was around, or one of the other commanders.

The camp had begun its pre-battle preparations: men conditioned their leather armour, polished their chainmail, cleaned their swords, put extra straw in their boots to stay dry. And the healers administered the last care they would give before the soldiers left. They would be able to get a few wounded up and into the fight, but most would still be too injured to fight tonight. Kari made his way towards the sick-tents to see if he could help. He couldn't expect to be made a rank-healer if he couldn't heal.

Birgit and a few other healers were there, their forms kneeling and straightening as they stopped by each cot in turn. He knelt down by the next cot in line, and the other healers moved past him, too focused on their task to mind him.

It was a woman with a large gash in her side. It had been bandaged, but it was clearly too delicate still for her to move. He lay his hands on her side, squinted, and willed his magicka to flow through his hands. This time he imagined it as a tiny brook, trickling gently but steadily, and he felt his hands warm up. The soldier groaned slightly and looked up at him.

"How does that feel?" he asked. She just nodded.

Well. He hadn't gotten this far before. His memory stretched back to when he used to heal himself after a particularly violent raid, or when he'd had too much skooma.

He pushed the magicka flow down towards the soldier. It was weak, but he could feel the energy leaving his fingers. His heart leapt with satisfaction and he felt his grip on the flow loosen. He caught it again, tightening it into a directed stream, and he'd just gotten control again when his magicka ran out.

“How does that feel?”

“Can I take the bandage off?”

“Just for a look.”

She reached down to her side and didn’t seem to be in any pain. Kari’s mouth twitched into a smile. He helped her as her fingers slipped off the awkwardly placed bandage, peeling it up gently. She shook her head as he looked up at her. “Feels fine.” A dark patch was revealed under the bandage; old bruising, and some reddish, new-looking patches of skin - and one long, pink line where the cut had been.

“It’s healed up,” he said. “Take some potions with you.”

“I can fight?” she asked, and her face lit up.

Kari shrugged, nodding. “You know your own limits.”

She grinned. “Thank you, Ripper.”

He lowered his head and stood up, looking at the other wounded. He’d run out of magicka, but at least he knew he could heal.

He’d awkwardly ducked his head into a couple command tents before he found Yrsarald’s. The commander was bent over his armor, apparently examining it. His shoulders slumped in a way that Kari hadn’t seen before.

“Yrsarald?”

He jerked up straight and looked at Kari with surprise. He blinked, then frowned.

“Yes?”

“I’d like to be made rank healer.”

The furrows in Yrsarald’s brow became deeper. “You stop fighting, but then you want to stay on the field?”

“Yes.”

“Can you heal?”

A pause. “Yes,” Kari said, but he’d waited a beat too long.

Yrsarald’s eyes narrowed. “You sure?”

“I can.”

The corners of his mouth turned downwards. “Forgive me if I don’t believe that our esteemed killing machine has healing hands.” He picked up a shortsword that lay on a bench nearby. “If you heal this, I’ll believe you.” He used the tongue of the blade to incise into his arm a gash the length of a finger. Drops of blood fell delicately to the straw lining the floor.

Kari nodded and stepped toward Yrsarald, extending his hands.

“Quickly, now, healer. We’re on the field.”

He imagined the magicka beating through him and over Yrsarald’s cut. The gash started to close up, but Kari knew he had to push the energy a little deeper, otherwise it would pull open like if he’d had stitches.

“That’s all I have time for, I’m a busy warrior,” the commander said, and pulled his arm away. He inspected the cut.

“A little rough, but I’m all ready to fight again, and I’m not going to bleed out. Good enough, Ripper. You know how rank healers work?”

“Avoid getting hit, heal the minor wounds, leave the major ones.”

He held Kari’s gaze. The mischief that had once lived in his eyes had faded almost completely. “Okay,” he sighed, “you can be in the second wave. Take one magicka potion - one, y’hear? - and muster with the soldiers, healer. Do you want a shield?”

Kari shook his head.

“Didn’t think so. Talos watch over you.”

****  
  


That evening the soldiers gathered at the base of the long incline up to Solitude. Siege machines had already smashed part of the city wall and some of the guard towers were on fire. A telling glow rose from inside the city into the night sky above. The heavy swings of the trebuchets could be heard from camp all evening. The city was well and truly under siege.

The muttering in the crowd ceased as the men noticed Ulfric stride towards the front. A rich blue cloak adorned his shoulders and on his head sat the Jagged Crown. He reached the head of the gathering and cast his eyes over them all with a stoic set of his jaw.

“This is it, men!” he began, and his voice sent shivers down Kari’s tail, “it's time to make this city ours! We come to this moment carried by the sacrifices and the courage of our fellows. Those who have fallen. And those still bearing the shields to our right. On this day, our enemy will know the fullness of our determination, the true depth of our anger, and the exalted righteousness of our cause.”

His hand shot up, pointing to the heavens.

“The gods are watching! The spirits of our ancestors are stirring! And the men under suns yet to dawn will be transformed by what we do here today. Fear neither pain, nor darkness. For Sovngarde awaits those who die with weapons in their hands and courage in their hearts. We now fight our way to Castle Dour to cut the head off the Legion itself! And in that moment, the gods will look down and see Skyrim as she was meant to be. Full of Nords who are mighty, powerful, and free!”

His sword came screaming out of its sheath.

“Ready now! Everyone, with me! For the sons and daughters of Skyrim!"

The first few lines of soldiers followed at Ulfric’s heels, Kari’s line waited until there was enough space in front to charge and support the sides of the first lines. Already his eyes were peeled for anyone who fell from an arrow grazing their side, or whose weapon dropped from their hands from injury. Arrows and rocks hailed down from the ramparts above as they passed through the already-broken city gate and Kari suddenly wished he had taken a shield. He knocked shoulders with the woman next to him. The Stormcloaks were in a bottleneck at the entrance; he couldn’t see Ulfric, but he could see Imperials at the periphery of the group swinging swords and axes. One Stormcloak helmet flashed in the corner of his eye, and he saw the man go down. The Stormcloaks bunched up, those in the middle ineffective, then like a river breaking a dam they flowed forth over twitching Imperial bodies. They were in the city.

One Stormcloak fell to his knees at the edge of the fighting. Kari forced his way in his direction. A flash of steel flew at his head and he ducked just in time to feel the axe pass over his sensitive ears. He angled to strike back at the man who’d swung it, only to remember that he wasn’t fighting anymore. That didn’t mean he couldn’t shove enemies out of the way. Kari jumped back again as the axe came back, and rushed the man off his feet. It gave him enough time to glimpse the fallen Stormcloak. The man’s leg had been sliced on the outside of his knee and he couldn’t stand. Was it too bad to heal?

The axe-wielder came at Kari again. He snarled and swiped his leg under the Imperial’s feet; the man fell backwards and caught his side on another fallen man’s sword, yelping as he went down. Kari scrambled towards the wounded Stormcloak, angling to examine his knee. The blade had carved its way along the side and under the kneecap. Too much damage. He couldn’t fight again.

Kari leapt to his feet, avoiding the skirmishes to catch up with the advancing soldiers. His eyes flicked back and forth over the ground - dead men, dying men, broken shields, broken arrows.

A woman in front of him cried out and stumbled; an arm wound, it looked like. As he stepped towards her, an arrow slammed into his shoulder, sending him reeling. His eyes watered as he tried to move his arm. Blood beat slowly through the hole in his armour. He knew he wouldn’t feel it soon, but he couldn’t risk bleeding to death. Had the arrow gone through to the other side? He couldn’t see, couldn’t feel. And he couldn’t heal himself if he left it in.

He moved on to find the woman. She’d walked on, shield still in hand, her weapon arm curled up at her side. He followed her, and when he got close enough he reached toward her shield with one hand in defense - in case she tried to break his teeth - and grasped her wounded arm. She spun around, grinning death on her face.

“I’ll heal you,” he yelled above the battle din, but no understanding showed on her face. The light flowed from his hand; she flexed her fingers, smiling, and nodded at him. He nodded back, and as he moved forward, he saw her yank an axe out of an Imperial’s skull, spraying blood all over herself.

He had to catch up to Ulfric, at least to see where he was, to keep him fighting. To make sure he was alright.

But another Stormcloak came towards him, offering his sliced arm to Kari for healing. Kari ducked towards him and healed him, leaning over a gasping, dying Stormcloak. The soldier leapt away. A death rattle made Kari look down at the dying man and for a second he was riveted to the ground. Thorri stared back up at him. Thorri, the giant he’d had to fight to serve under Ulfric. Thorri, who’d wept when he heard that his sister was getting married. Kari placed his sword back into his fist. He’d wasted too much time already. He had to go on.

He shouldered his way through the chaos. The arrow sticking out of his shoulder caught on someone’s arm and he snarled through the pain. It was keeping the wound closed, relatively. And he couldn’t reach it to pull it out through the back. He had to leave it.

By the time he’d reached the residential area he could just see Ulfric and Galmar struggling their way past the keep barricades. A stumpy Imperial stumbled across his path and Kari threw her to the ground with his good arm. At this stage in the fight it didn’t matter if he stayed with his line. The attackers were just trying to hack their way towards the keep, or to stop themselves from being flanked.

As he charged up the incline a sword came out at him. It cut into him, sliding across his ribs before he could dodge it. He fought the urge to strike back and continued on his way. His hand went to his side to heal the cut, but all he felt was the hot wetness of his blood and the jagged, sliced leather of his armour. Another arrow whizzed past his ears. He tried to take the potion from his belt with his good arm but couldn’t break the string that held it there. Searing, aching pain wracked his other arm as he reached down and yanked. It didn’t come. His eyes smarted and he yanked again. The potion came off. As he gulped it he wished he’d had a healing potion instead. He healed himself just enough to close the wound, but the leather armour still gaped and closed as he moved where the sword had cut into it. He had to have enough magicka left in case Ulfric - or Galmar - was injured.

He plowed across the courtyard cobblestones and rushed in after Ulfric and Galmar. The door slammed against its hinges and nearly hit him with the rebound. He barrelled into the room to see several Imperial guards dead on the floor. Ulfric and Galmar circled Tullius and his right-hand legate. The Jarl looked uninjured. Kari slowed up and padded towards them, not sure what was happening, and unable to help.

“That’s not the Skyrim I want to live in,” the legate said. Her sword tip wavered between Ulfric and Galmar.

“Rikke,” Ulfric said, “you don’t have to do this.”

“You’ve left me no choice.” She breathed out hard through her nose, determined. “Talos preserve us.”

She lunged at Ulfric, and he parried; Galmar swung at Tullius, who leapt back, unable to counter against his battleaxe. Each side attacked, then defended. Kari had never seen such an evenly matched fight.

Then Ulfric’s sword plunged through Rikke’s armour. Her sword clattered on the ground and she sputtered and fell. Tullius dropped his sword and backed away.

Ulfric’s eyes flamed. “This is it for you. Any last words before I send you to Oblivion?"

"You realize this is exactly what they wanted,” Tullius replied. "The Thalmor. They stirred up trouble here. Forced us to divert needed resources and throw away good soldiers quelling this rebellion."

"It's a little more than a rebellion, don't you think?"

Tullius tilted his head pleadingly. "We aren't the bad guys, you know."

“Maybe not, but you certainly aren't the good guys."

"Perhaps you're right. But then what does that make you?"

Galmar stood up a little straighter. "It makes us right."

"And if I surrender?" Tullius asked.

"The Empire I remember never surrendered," Ulfric said.

"That Empire is dead,” Galmar growled, “and so are you."

Tullius clenched his jaw and stared at the floor. "So be it."

Galmar looked back up at Ulfric. "Just kill him and let's be done with it already."

"Come, Galmar. Where's your sense of the dramatic moment?"

"By the gods! If it's a good ending to some damn story you're after...Do you want Ripper to deliver a eulogy, or something?

Ulfric glared at him, as if he’d committed some crime by acknowledging that the Khajiit was in the room.

Kari stepped up next to Galmar and stared unblinkingly at Ulfric. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, but his stomach twisted with apprehension.

“I have not forgiven you,” Ulfric spat.

“I’m here, Ulfric. I came to see if you were injured.”

The Jarl’s brows knitted together slightly and he pursed his lips, but made no reply.

“What do you want me to do? Rip out his throat? Break his skull? Paint my face with his blood?”

“I want you to do _something_.” He hissed the last word.

“Haven’t I done enough?”

“There is no such thing as enough.” He turned his back on Kari and adjusted his sword grip. Tullius looked up at them both, questions in his eyes.

“Jarl Ulfric,” Kari began, “Listen, you arrogant bastard.”  
“This is not the time or place,” Galmar muttered.

“I’m a Stormcloak, through and through, as much as the next man. I’ve stopped crushing throats but I’m still on your side.” The smell of Legate Rikke’s blood started to waft into his nostrils. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t make his heart race. “I’m not just the Ripper, the Tiger, the Shredder. I’m a Stormcloak. I’ll follow you anywhere. I’m at your disposal. But if I’m just a strong arm to you, then I’m leaving. Ulfric Stormcloak will have lost his champion, for good. I won’t be at your side. I won’t protect you. I won’t teach you. You doubted my word when we met. Don’t fucking doubt me now.”

He could see Ulfric’s shoulders rising and falling with angry breaths, he could feel Galmar pulled tight like a bowstring, he could smell Tullius’ fear. It might not have been the right time or place, but there wasn’t any other.

Then Ulfric turned around and his face was like a cracked stone. He offered Kari the sword pommel.

“You want acceptance? If you understand me as well as I think, you know that victory for us means more than this single execution.”

Maybe he was testing Kari. He didn’t have to.

“I understand you,” Kari replied. Ulfric’s face softened as the sword was taken from his hand.

Kari stepped towards Tullius. _Ulfric wasn’t just asking him to do his dirty work. He was telling him he trusted him._

The general was still proud, even on his knees. Kari lifted the sword above his head, eyeing the spot on Tullius’ neck and brought the weapon down, cleaving into skin and bone. The blade caught. He yanked the sword free, and Tullius’ body twitched and slumped to the floor, gasping and gurgling sounds emanating from his throat. Kari repositioned the blade and aimed again. This time he hacked all the way through the bone and sinew, and the Imperial’s head fell away from the body like a stray ball of yarn.

Kari heaved a breath as his blood rushed through his veins. He looked up to Galmar and Ulfric, expecting satisfaction. Instead their faces were threadbare.

“It’s done,” Galmar said wearily.

“This is just the beginning,” Ulfric muttered. His eyes slid from Tullius’ head to Kari’s eyes, and he inclined his head almost imperceptibly. “I suppose some kind of speech is in order.”

“I’ll go gather the men in the courtyard,” Galmar replied.

“And Elisif?”

“Don’t you worry about her. I’ve sent my best men to round her up.”

Kari and Ulfric stared at each other as Galmar swooped out of the room.

“I thought you’d given up,” Ulfric said, his voice quiet and gravelly.

Kari shook his head. “Not on the cause.” He took a step towards the Jarl. “You don’t have to control me, you know.”

“I realised.”

Kari nodded once.

“Stand with me?”

“Of course.” He paused. “Trollbrain.”

“Didn’t miss that attitude.” Ulfric tried to frown, but Kari saw a curl in his lips.

The Stormcloaks’ eyes were fixed on the door as it opened, and their Jarl and his champion stepped out into the biting cold.

Galmar’s voice boomed. “And now, I present to you, Ulfric Stormcloak, hero of the people, liberator and High King of Skyrim!”

Ulfric squared his shoulders and seemed to grow taller. "I am indeed Ulfric Stormcloak, and at my side, the man we know as Ripper Kari.” His eyes fell upon every one of the soldiers gathered before him. “And indeed, there are many that call us heroes. But it is all of you who are the true heroes! It was you who fought a dying Empire that sunk its claws into our land, trying to drag us down with it.” Kari thought he saw Ulfric’s eyes grow wet. “It was you who fought the Thalmor and their puppets who would have us deny our gods and our heritage. It was you who fought your kin who didn't understand our cause, who weren't willing to pay the price of our freedom. But more than that, it was you who fought for Skyrim, for our right to fight our own battles... to return to our glory and traditions, to determine our own future!"

The soldiers cheered.

"And it is for these reasons that I cannot accept the mantle of High King. Not until the Moot declares that title should adorn my shoulders will I accept it."

A Stormcloak raised his voice. "And what about Jarl Elisif?"

"Yes, what about the Lady Elisif?” Ulfric looked at her pointedly. “Will she put aside her personal hatred for me, and her misplaced love for the Emperor and his coin, so that the suffering of our people will end? Will she acknowledge that it is we Nords who will determine Skyrim's future? Will she swear fealty to me, so all may know that we are at peace, and a new day has dawned?"

Elisif’s mouth twisted with displeasure, but she nodded and called, "I will!"

"Then it is settled. The Jarl will continue to rule Solitude, I will garrison armies here to ward off Imperial attempts to reclaim the city. And in due time, the Moot will meet, and settle the claim to High King once and for all. There is much to do, and I need every able bodied man and woman committed to rebuilding Skyrim. A great darkness is growing, and soon we will be called to fight it, on these shores or abroad. The Aldmeri Dominion may have defeated the Empire, but it has not defeated Skyrim!"

Ulfric turned away from the gathering as Galmar gave orders to hold prisoners of war and clean up the city. The Jarl glanced sideways at Kari for a moment, then looked away.

“Are you sure they’ll accept you as High King?” Kari asked.

“Yes.”

"So it's a moot point."

Ulfric raised an eyebrow.

"You do not like puns?"

"It is no joking matter."

"Everything is a joking matter."

“Not quite everything. I know you know that.”

Ulfric watched the soldiers go their separate ways and Kari contemplated Elisif, faded and lost-looking as she was.

“You are on my side,” Ulfric said. Kari thought it sounded like a question.

“Of course,” he replied.

“You have an arrow in your shoulder.”

“Yes. Did it go through the other side?”

Ulfric leaned back to see. “No.”

“Shit.” Kari grimaced and pushed the arrow shaft further through his shoulder nearly up to the fletching. He grasped the feathers to snap the arrow but paused.

“Kari, what are you doing?” Ulfric asked.

“Trying to get this arrow out of my shoulder, what does it look like?”

“Go to a healer.”

“I am a healer.”

The Jarl glared at him for a second and Kari could almost hear him thinking ‘trollbrain’. “They will saw the arrow off first, _then_ remove it. Without damaging your shoulder further. How have you survived so long, Ripper?”

Kari opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. “I’ll find someone with a saw.” He met the Jarl’s gaze and it seemed there were no more barriers between them. “Thank you, Ulfric.”

Ulfric smiled, barely, but enough that the corners of his eyes crinkled slightly.

Warmth settled again in the bottom of Kari’s heart.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So of course this chapter took me, like, forever to write. But, it is longer than most of them, so, that's good. There's one more chapter left, guys! Woo!
> 
> Also, I didn't proofread this as many times as I usually do, so I hope there aren't too many typos.


	18. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Begin: life after the revolution.

The only light there was fell ghostly blue over the Jarl’s chambers. It lit Ulfric's face and dissolved years of tension from his countenance. Kari watched his chest rise and fall with slow, deep, breaths. Perhaps this was the best sleep the man had had in months. Kari pulled the furs and blankets higher around Ulfric’s shoulders, then crept silently out of the bed. He lit a fire and pulled his cloak off of a chair, spreading it across his shoulders.

The Stormcloaks were sometimes mindless in their devotion. It often came close to hero worship, considering Ulfric's charisma, and even Kari was not immune. Ulfric lived up to his legend, amazingly, but they all forgot that he was just a man. Kari could see it now. He was just a man. A soldier. A Nord. Someone yearning for a homeland restored to its former pride and wholeness. And that made him all the more wonderful.

He’d succeeded, so far. He hadn’t lost his way like Kari had.

Behind his eyelids, Kari was back in Elsweyr. He was spending balmy days competing with his brother to collect wood. He was training with his friends under Dro’Zhid’s guiding gaze. He was paying his respects to Clan Mother Azadha, who kept a watchful eye on all the young people.

Their loss ate away at him from the inside, as it always had, a slow-burning ember that had never been put out. He was clanless, without family. He would never be home again. And it was because of his own audacity. This morning, it stung a little less, subdued by his beginnings at repentance. Instead of destroying an entire people, he’d helped a nation get their own foothold.

He looked towards Ulfric. Comfortable. Restful. At peace. A smile lifted Kari’s whiskers. He shifted his cloak and - though Birgit had done her best - pain shot through his shoulder where the arrow had been, forcing a hiss from his lips. Ulfric stirred. Kari’s gaze followed him as he rose lazily from the grand bed and ambled to the other chair by the fire. He was bare-chested, and in the morning light Kari could see clearly the scars all over his midsection.

“Good morning, High King,” he said.

Ulfric frowned and squinted, still waking up. “Good morning. And...not yet.”

They sat together in comfortable silence and stared into the fire.

“I’m...glad that you came back, Kari.” The corners of his mouth twitched and his eyes softened. “Ri’Kash.”

Kari smiled. “Ri’Kash,” he echoed. “You remembered my name.”

He held Ulfric’s gaze, leisurely and close. That was his name, indeed. Not Nord. Always Khajiit. Kari looked back to the fireplace. His eyes unfocused as the flames danced in front of him. Their light warmed him to the bone, and struck him at his very core. He settled into the warmth with his Jarl beside him. Visions drifted in and out of the tongues of flame. Falling snow, and a jagged crown. Visions of sandstorms and dunes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter. I realised there wasn't much to write about, except that Kari and Ulfric finally understand each other. And are sleeping in the same bed.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this fanfiction. I certainly enjoyed writing it, even though it was trying at times. Feedback is still welcome, of course. I want to improve my writing and I need your help to do it :) Thanks, guys.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and feedback are 1000% welcome! What did you like? What do you think needs to be changed? What would you like to see?


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